


hammer me to the cross of my despair

by starrymellie



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Keddie Cabin Murders, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Ryan Bergara, Protective Shane Madej, Psychological Horror, Recovery, They look out for each other, both the boys are a mess, ryan's good heart is his greatest weakness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-22 06:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrymellie/pseuds/starrymellie
Summary: Keddie was a quiet town.Keddie was a peaceful town.Or, so they naively had thought.After the incident in Keddie, nothing will ever feel the same again.





	1. aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icantwritegood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icantwritegood/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Disturbing Murders at Keddie Cabin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12711345) by [icantwritegood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icantwritegood/pseuds/icantwritegood). 



> ohoho here i am jumping onto the rpf train again @ god please don't smite me
> 
> This fic is a direct continuation of _The Disturbing Murders at Keddie Cabin_ by icantwritegood, so it would be a good idea to read that story first to gain the full context of this one, though this piece can also be read as a standalone story. That said, enjoy!

Ryan couldn't get warm.

His body was juddering and trembling, and his teeth were clacking together behind closed lips, and the heater was rattling, and he had never felt colder in all his life. He pulled his jacket closer to himself, which didn’t really do much for him, as it was sopping wet. He shivered. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes.

The ancient Volvo was potentially older than Ryan himself, with worn-down leather seats and an engine that grumbled noisily as Shane sped down this twisting double-yellow-line road from hell. The fog was thick, surrounding them like a blanket and obscuring the road ahead of them. It settled low on the forest floor on either side of the road like a tarp thrown over a corpse, covering the evidence of the blood that had been spilled into the earth underneath. They had been driving for maybe an hour now, but nothing felt real, the car didn’t have a clock, and Ryan’s sense of time was long gone. Neither of them knew where they were going, only that it was _away._ Away from Keddie. Away from that hellhole.

The heat was cranking on full-blast, making the blood drying on the right side of Ryan’s face go from tacky to brittle. The way it dried made him feel stiff and paralyzed, like a statue. Shane’s heavy hand on his shoulder tensed up whenever he had to slow down the car to make a turn or cross a bridge. It seemed precarious, him navigating these slick, winding roads with just one shaky hand on the wheel, but they had fallen into silence and Ryan was glad for the contact.

Ryan thought of the hammer. He shifted in his seat. His belt was too light without it hanging there. He felt a deep discomfort, down in his bones, as though he was naked without it. He thought of how the officer’s head had crunched beneath his swing, bursting like a melon; how the dog had crumpled, dead at Shane’s feet, the hem of his jeans still locked in its jaw. He thought of Marty and Marilyn Smartt slaughtering an innocent family. An intense wave of nausea washed over Ryan and he dug his nails into his palms, squeezing his eyes shut against the dizziness. He focused on that, instead of the discomfort.

 _I do not miss the hammer. I do_ not _miss the hammer. I am glad I left it in the woods. Fuck that piece of shit hammer._

A potent combination of fear, adrenaline, and lack of core heat continued to make Ryan shake uncontrollably, and he hated how helpless it made him feel. Shane took his hand off of Ryan’s shoulder and put it on the wheel, making Ryan shudder with a fresh wave of chills. Shane stole a glance at him, but his eyes didn’t quite meet Ryan’s, his gaze getting lost somewhere in the two feet between them. His hands trembled minutely on the steering wheel, knuckles white and bloody. Technically, they were safer if Shane was driving with both hands, especially because they both seemed to be in some state of shock, but Ryan wasn’t sure it felt that way.

“Sorry,” Shane mumbled, still not looking at him. His eyes looked like they were made of glass, and Ryan was sure his looked much the same, both of them staring catatonically out at the road that stretched out before them.

Ryan shrugged and responded with some low noise along the lines of, “it’s fine,” and shuffled down into his seat. A drop of water from a tree overhead hit the windshield with a sharp tap, and Ryan jerked. Shane didn’t say anything, didn’t bother with the leaf-encrusted wipers. Ryan numbly watched the water trail down the window and disappear along the edge and sighed through his nose, rubbing his trembling hands together. He didn’t think he’d ever be warm and dry again.

 

* * *

 

It was unclear how much time had passed when Shane finally pulled into a diner parking lot and turned off the engine, but it was starting to get dark and his limbs felt all weak and stiff from driving all day. Shane looked around and let out a sigh of relief, finally allowing his body to relax the tiniest bit. They were in the downtown area of some small town, but it was decidedly much bigger and more connected with civilization than Keddie. Shane shuddered; just _thinking_ the name of the town now inspired a gut reaction of panic and discomfort. He rubbed at his throat, swallowing painfully and blinking away the tears that sprung to his eyes from the action. Swallowing was one of those things that he never thought he’d be thankful for until it hurt like a motherfucker. Staring blankly at the bright signs of the strip mall across the street, he leaned back in his seat and rested his eyes for a brief moment.

A _brief_ moment, mind you, because suddenly Ryan Bergara was crawling all over him, shaking him, all trembly hands and wavering voice, a little ball of self-contained panic. Ryan had fallen asleep, maybe, or spaced out, but the sudden stop of movement had jolted him back into reality with lightning speed, it seemed.

“Shane, Sh-Shane Shane Shane a-are you okay oh my god w-what’s going on where are we shit are you asleep are you okay why did we stop Shane w-why did we stop?” Ryan talked like the single breath he used to speak would be his last.

Shane brought up his arms around Ryan—who jolted so hard he hit his head on the roof of the car and almost took out some of Shane’s teeth—and pressed him in close. Ryan’s heart fluttered like a caged bird, pounding so hard and fast that Shane could feel it against his own chest.

“Shhhhhh,” he breathed into Ryan’s hair, lifting his hands so they hovered over Ryan’s arms and back, not quite touching. “S’okay. Everything’s okay. It’s nighttime now. We’re far away now.” It still hurt to talk, so he stopped there.

“We’re alive,” Ryan whispered, like he was afraid it wasn’t true.

“Mm,” Shane rumbled. Ryan tensed up, so Shane pulled back to look at him, for the first time in what felt like days. At face value, Ryan looked like he could be one of the serial killers he so avidly researched, the dried blood on his face and clothes appearing black in the low light of the flickering street lamp above them, which cast his features in deep shadow. The illusion was shattered by the way his eyes glistened with tears and his lip trembled, and how he was practically huddled in Shane’s lap, shaking like a leaf. He needed an answer in the affirmative. They were alive, alright.

“Yeah,” Shane said, as confidently as he could with the frog in his throat.

“Y-Yeah?” Ryan echoed. He looked like he was about to cry. Oh, no.

A tear spilled down his cheek, and then another, and Shane felt his throat tighten. Dammit. He didn’t want to cry again, but Ryan was inches from his face and sniffling and here he was. He nodded, wiping the tears from Ryan’s cheeks and studying the murky rust-tinged droplet on his right thumb. With that, he sniffed his own tears in, gave Ryan’s hand a squeeze, and leaned back again. Ryan clambered off of the center console to collect himself and let Shane have some space, but Shane could still feel his eyes on him.

“S-So, what now?” Ryan said after a few long moments. “Where are we?”

Shane canted his gaze up to the diner doors in front of him. The parking lot was actually relatively full, so he supposed it was around dinnertime. Warm light spilled from the windows.

“Joe’s Diner.”

Ryan took a second to scoff at him. “I can see that, i-idiot. I-I meant, like, _where_ are we?”

Shane gave his best shrug of indifference. “I don’t know. Maybe we can ask someone inside.”

“Inside,” Ryan repeated shakily. He still seemed to be thoroughly shaken up, whereas Shane felt as though he’d switched his brain off about two minutes into their escape. He wasn’t feeling much of anything, at the moment. It was nice to feel nothing at all.

“I can’t go in there!” Ryan shouted suddenly, whipping his head around to look at Shane with barely restrained terror. “I’m still covered in bl—in blood! You are too, actually! They’re gonna think that _we’re_ the ones who just k-killed people!”

 _Well, technically, Ryan, we’ve both killed people now._ Shane refrained from voicing this thought, his arms feeling heavy on his shoulders. He wasn’t going to be the one to burst Ryan’s bubble and make his panic worse.

“We’re both starving, Ryan,” Shane stated, his words punctuated by a gurgle from Ryan’s stomach that had perfect comedic timing. Ryan looked down at his belly like he wanted to fight it. Shane gave a good-natured chuckle, purely for Ryan’s benefit. It hurt his throat.

“But—”

“Hey, hey, it’s fine,” Shane said, opening the glove compartment and digging around for something he could wipe his nose with.

“It’s not fine, it’s—”

“Look.” Shane held up a crumpled tissue. Flipping down the overhead mirror, he assessed the damage. There were bruises, and his shirt had some nasty bloodstains, but the only blood on his face was from his nosebleed yesterday and a cut on his cheek that he must’ve gotten running through the woods. He was sporting a split lip, but that was passable. Shane avoided his own haunted gaze in the mirror and dampened the tissue with his spit, methodically wiping his face clean. He turned to Ryan, who had pulled hs knees up to his chest and was nervously picking at his cuticles.

“I’m going to run inside and get you a wet paper towel or something so you can clean up, then we’ll go inside together and get something to eat.” It sounded like a solid plan to Shane, but Ryan’s face said otherwise.

“Y-You’re going to l-leave me...alone?" he said in a small voice, and Shane’s heart clenched. He remembered the last time he left Ryan alone. He remembered sitting in that freezing holding cell and regretting it with all his being.

“I mean…” Shane trailed off. Ryan gave him a terrified look. Fuck, he did not want to leave Ryan alone. But Ryan was right. He couldn’t go in there splattered with blood, and this was something that couldn’t be cleaned up with a measly used tissue.

“Yes,” Shane finally bit out. Ryan looked distraught. “But only for a minute, I swear I’ll be in and out. You won’t have to stay in here alone any longer than you were in that, uh, that demon hole at Bobby Mackey’s, or, or, or Waverly! _So_ many demon holes. Those were pretty scary, right? And there aren’t even any _demons_ here!” Shane didn't notice how much he was rambling until he realized his throat was burning with pain, constricting in on itself. Ryan squirmed and bit his lip.

“This is worse,” he said. And for a moment, Shane was at a loss, because he was _right_ , this was _so_ much worse. He cleared his throat, and Ryan winced at the ugly noise.

“We’re far away,” Shane repeated in a way that he hoped was reassuring, steeling himself to get out of the car. “Marilyn Smartt is dead. Hagwood and Gamberg are dead. Nobody out here wants to hurt you.”

Ryan flinched at every mention of those names, but after a moment, he nodded.

“Yeah, okay. Y-You go ahead. I’ll stay here for a—for a minute. I’ll—I’ll be okay.” His voice shook, but he said this with confidence.

Shane couldn’t help but smile. Ryan was so brave. He was so fucking strong.

“Thank you, Ryan. You’re braver than you think. I’ll be right back.”

Locking the doors, Shane tentatively stepped out onto the asphalt, taking in a deep breath. Damn, it felt good to stretch his legs.

A sharp gust of wind buffeted his back, and suddenly the hair on the back of Shane’s neck stood on end. He knew deep down that he was being paranoid, but he still had the uncanny feeling that he was being watched. It was stupid, but he half-expected the men with bandanas to leap out of the bushes and try to strangle him right there in the parking lot. It would be finishing what they started...no, more than that. It would be payback. He froze, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides. The same hands that had wrapped around that man’s neck and squeezed and—

Shane took a steadying breath.

_Get a grip, Madej._

The night air was crisp and clear compared to the stuffy interior of the car, but it wasn’t nearly as cold as Keddie had been, and the ground beneath his feet was dry. As he sprinted up the stairs to the diner entrance, his joints ached and cracked and his heart pounded with baseless fear, but Ryan’s words pulsed through him with every step forward.

_We’re alive. We’re alive. We’re alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is greatly appreciated!! <3
> 
> you can also yell at me on tumblr @ crappylittledemon


	2. homebound

Ryan stared into his chicken noodle soup and didn't think he recognized the reflection that stared back.

“You gonna eat?” Shane croaked out, picking up his bowl and dumping about a quart of clam chowder into his mouth. Ryan just shrugged, watching Shane’s face go through varying degrees of poorly-masked pain as he swallowed.

“I'm not—I'm not hungry.”

“That's a load of bullshit and you know it, buddy.” Shane took a sip of his honey-doused tea and grimaced again on the swallow. “I think the last meal we had was, what, two days ago? Maybe longer. You gotta eat, man.”

A twinge of guilt tugged at Ryan’s mind like an insistent child pulling on his shirt hem. He sighed. It had been a stroke of pure luck that despite the ordeal they'd been through, Ryan’s wallet had still been secure in his inner jacket pocket, full of usable (albeit soggy) cash. He didn't feel deserving of the luck (or the food, for that matter), but the least he could do was accept it. Starving was never a good option, regardless of the situation.

Ryan halfheartedly scooped up a noodle with his spoon and shoved it into his mouth. The sensation of food on his tongue was enough to get him to keep eating, mechanically shoving spoonfuls of broth into his mouth, but he wasn't really focusing on it. He wasn't even sure if he was actually tasting the soup; he only knew that it didn't taste awful enough to make him spit it out or trigger his gag reflex, which was good enough for him. Oh, and it was warm. That, too.

Shane’s neck looked horrible. There was no pleasant way to think of the rope burn that wrapped the circumference of his throat; it was obvious from both that and his trouble speaking that he had been strangled with some sort of terrible, rough twine. Ryan tried not to stare at the angry red ligature marks, but he felt his eyes continuously drift back to them. He wanted to ask how–? why–? but it felt like it was far too soon to bring it up. Shane could barely talk, as it were. He thought of Shane sitting alone, cuffed and helpless in that dilapidated town hall, then possibly being dragged away in the dead of night, beaten up,  _hanged_ —

“I would ask if you were okay, but it almost feels redundant, at this point,” Shane choked out. He reached across to gently place his large hand on Ryan’s forearm, offering him a weak smile.

“Relax,” he croaked, and Ryan desperately tried not to picture his friend from middle school’s grandma who had had emphysema in her lungs and a gaping hole in her throat that she had to plug with her finger whenever she spoke.

“Okay,” he said, and tried to think about something else, because comparing Shane to Mrs. Fletcher felt somewhat disrespectful to Shane’s situation of being, y’know, nearly murdered multiple times by a small town of fucking psychopaths. _I would know_ , Ryan thought inanely. _I was there._

“Everything taste alright, boys?”

Ryan jolted away from Shane’s touch like he was burned and looked up to see their waitress standing over him, smiling sweetly. She was in her forties, maybe, but still looked a bit too young to be calling them “boys.” A single gray streak was pulled back into her brunette bun, but her face didn't look very old. And her nametag read _MARILYN_ , because God hated Ryan.

“I-I—uh...we—we’re...” Ryan felt like he'd suddenly lost his ability to assemble a sentence. His hands shook in his lap.

The silence yawned out between them like a palpable entity. Panic bloomed in Ryan’s stomach from an unidentifiable source. His palms were sweatier than he thought they'd ever been in his life. This was ridiculous, what the fuck. If talking to Shane felt a little more awkward than usual, attempting to talk to a stranger all of a sudden felt like floating chin-deep and helpless in that damn river. He felt so out of his depth, for no reason at all, it wasn't even funny. This level of fear was almost on par with how he'd felt seeing that flashlight turn on in the Sallie house, and the worst part was that now, he didn't even know where it was coming from. Marilyn the Waitress cocked her head.

“Are you okay, hon?”

Ryan blinked, and on the backs of his eyelids saw the way Marilyn Smartt’s brain matter had looked splattered across the dark, mossy bark of that oak tree. He found himself wondering if Marilyn the Waitress’s brain would look the same if she shot herself dead, too, a silver handgun exploding into her temple at the will of a single, pink-manicured trigger finger. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck.

Christ on a crutch, he was fucking losing it.

“It's, uh, i-it’s—”

“Everything’s delicious,” Shane blessedly cut in.

To her credit, Marilyn the Waitress seemed unfazed by Ryan’s floundering, turning to Shane and beaming at the response.

“Excellent, is there anything else you boys need?”

Ryan was about to attempt to dismiss her because he was seriously about to freak, but Shane rattled his throat and spoke first with, “Actually, we have some questions for you.” He took another long sip of his tea. “If that's okay.”

“Sure! What can I help you with?” She looked between them curiously. Ryan swallowed down the dry heat in his throat and stared intently at his lap.

“Well,” Shane said, “we were wondering where we are, exactly.”

Marilyn the Waitress smiled beatifically. “Long road trip?”

Shane visibly cringed. “You could say that.”

“Well, you've found yourselves in downtown Lamont, California,” she informed them. “Small town, but it suits me just fine. We’re a couple minutes southeast of Bakersfield.”

Shane nodded thoughtfully, seeming impressed with himself that he had driven so far without stopping. Ryan was impressed, too. _Bakersfield!_ They must have been driving for seven hours, at the very least.

“Oh yeah?” Shane continued conversationally. “And what's the fastest way back to L.A. from here?”

At this, Marilyn the Waitress let out a titillated little chirp. “Oh my, you’re _city boys_!”

And Ryan _really_ didn't like the way she said that, for the same illogical reason that his brain wouldn't let him talk to her like a coherent human being. God, these small towns were really driving him crazy. He never thought he'd miss shitty, bustling L.A. so much.

“L.A. is two hours from here, almost on the nose if there's no traffic,” she continued. “You two trying to get there tonight?”

“Maybe,” Shane shrugged, and Ryan was ridiculously glad that Shane hadn't told her when they were going. He didn't actually think anyone would follow them, but something in his subconscious whispered persistently, _you never know_.

“Well, have a safe rest of your trip!” she said pleasantly, and Ryan almost snorted at the implication that the first part of their trip had been “safe.” He grit his teeth. The left side of his face still felt raw from where he’d scrubbed at it with the paper towel until the only redness left there was from his own scoured skin. He couldn't look into Marilyn the Waitress’s eyes, so he stared intently at her pale blue polo shirt. Every glance at her nametag felt like staring down the barrel of a gun.

Finally ( _finally_ ), Shane thanked her and asked for the check. As she left, Ryan let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and slumped slightly over the table, breathing hard like he'd just finished running a marathon. He could feel Shane’s eyes on him as he panted breathlessly, trying to force the panic to evacuate his body.

_I am okay. Shane is okay. We are okay._

“Are you okay?” Shane asked, despite saying that he wouldn't earlier. There was a glaze of pain in his eyes, probably from doing all that talking. Ryan felt yet another twinge of guilt. _The one time Shane has a throat injury, and I’m too busy internally panicking to even do the talking._

“No.” Ryan’s gaze darted around the diner, which was beginning to quiet as patrons filed out. “B-But I should really be—I should really be asking you the same thing.”

“Me?” Shane had the audacity to look surprised. “Why?”

“ _Why_? Are you kidding, Shane? You're the one who's injured, here. I'm just—I'm just.” Ryan let that thought hang in the air, unfinished. He wished he knew what to say.

“Sure, but you actually look like you're gonna pass out. So let's talk about it.” Shane ejected yet another ratchety sound from his crushed vocal cords.

Ryan let out a slow breath. “No, _I’ll_ talk about it. You be quiet and drink your damn tea.”

Shane almost smiled. “Deal.”

Marilyn the Waitress stopped by and placed their receipt on the table with a smile and a wink. Ryan held his breath and stayed frozen for a few seconds after she left. Shane waited and sipped his tea obediently.

“Okay, so,” Ryan breathed out. “I don't know if it was—if it was just _her_ , or if it was just that she was a, uh, a stranger, but.” He paused.

“It didn't help that her name was Marilyn,” Shane added. Ryan suppressed his shudder at the name and gave him a pointed look. Shane pantomimed zipping his lips shut.

Ryan breathed, loudly. “I'm just—”

Shane gave him a slow blink, reassuring.

“I'm _scared_ , Shane. I'm so, so fucking scared. I know—I know I always say I'm scare—scared and I'm _always_ scared but it's never been like this. It's _never_ been like this.”

Ryan said this part quieter, a rapid, private stream of consciousness contained by the flimsy plastic and vinyl walls of their booth. His thoughts were a mess, so his words were a mess. Repeating himself hadn't made what he’d said sound any more reassuring or solid. He ran both shaking hands through his hair and left them there, resting his elbows on the table.

“I just...I don't know what the fuck is going on. What the _fuck_ is going on, Shane, what the _fuck_ is happening.” He tightened his fingers in his greasy hair, pulling until it hurt.

When he looked up, Shane was regarding him with a truly unreadable expression, his big hands resting limply around his mug on the table. But he was looking at Ryan, and his eyes were not glass. He _saw_ him.

“I...I trust you, Shane,” Ryan said, surprising even himself with the candid statement that spilled out of his mouth.

Shane took in a deep breath and tilted his head back ever so slightly in silent understanding.

“I trust you, but...I'm not so sure I trust everyone else anymore. I think the blind faith I used to have is what got us nearly killed.”

“Ryan—”

“No. Shut up. Rest that voicebox, let me do the talking for now.”

Ryan tried to smile but it felt tight and fake on his face. He’d been trying to be lighthearted, but it had come out sounding more serious than he’d wanted.

After a moment, Shane nodded, and they sat in silence for a while, watching people filter out of the tiny diner. Many of them seemed to be local residents, bidding Marilyn the Waitress and the owner standing at the cash register goodnight as they left. They both knew that they should really get going soon, but at the same time, they both needed a moment to rest. Shane traced patterns into the mealy remains of the chowder in his bowl with the tip of his spoon, seemingly lost in thought. Ryan alternated between looking at Shane, watching people whenever they stood up to leave, and staring at his hands, wondering if there was still blood under his nails that he just couldn't see.

When the room was nearly empty, Ryan stood up, not wanting Shane and him to be the last ones left inside. This jerked Shane out of his thoughts and he shot up out of his seat like a bottle rocket, then promptly doubled over in pain, groaning.

“Whoa, take it easy, big guy,” Ryan said. “Are you okay?”

Shane looked up at Ryan with a pained look then gestured at his groin and— _oh_.

A laugh bubbled out of Ryan before he could stop it, high and loud. “Did you seriously—? You did _not_ —” he wheezed.

Shane rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, too. He straightened and sidled out of the booth, pulling Ryan out after him.

“ _Only you_ ,” Ryan said emphatically, still giggling, “would manage to whack your fucking _dick_ on the table. Who _does_ that, fucking Christ.”

Shane jammed a thumb into his chest and waggled his eyebrows. _Me, baby._

With the return of banter between them, it was like the air surrounding them had become ten pounds lighter. Ryan could almost pretend that nothing had happened. They weren't at some small town diner in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, because they were escaping a town of veritable murderers. No, they were just there because they were _supposed_ to be. Sure, Shane was unnaturally quiet (per Ryan's request) and Ryan couldn't look at the owner as Shane took Ryan’s wallet from him and paid for their meal, but they were still Ryan and Shane. They were still the ghoul boys. Ryan just had to remember that.

It occurred to Ryan belatedly that Shane had never let go of his hand. When he hesitated in the doorway, Shane gave it a squeeze, and they traversed the parking lot together, hand in hand. Two days ago, it probably would've been weird. Now, Ryan was only thankful to have Shane close by his side. He slid into the driver’s seat, allowing Shane some well-deserved rest. Cranking the seat forward so his feet reached the pedals, Ryan started the noisy engine of Marilyn’s car and only prayed that he wouldn't get more lost.

 

* * *

 

Shane awoke to a loud whoop from Ryan and the staticky sound of the old radio quietly playing some hip-hop song he didn't recognize. He blinked a few times until the glistening L.A. lights focused in the distance, then let out a sigh of relief. They were home.

“Stop at the office,” he mumbled, his voice even gravelier due to the fact that he'd just woken up.

“What?”

“Office,” he repeated, attempting to clearing his throat of an imaginary blockage. God, it was so much worse when his throat was dry. Ow, dammit.

“What? Why? It's probably like, midnight.”

“I left my apartment keys in there, and so did you. We won't have anywhere to sleep unless we get them.”

“Oh, right.”

The office was dark and silent, which was eerie in itself for a place that was so often bright and full of bizarre activity. Shane reassured Ryan that he'd be quick and left him to rest in the locked car as he swiped himself in and ascended the stairs to the main office space, taking the them two at a time. He snatched the keys out of his and Ryan’s desk drawers and was just about to leave when he heard a gasp behind him.

Whirling around, he locked eyes with a girl sitting across the room at a humming laptop, who he had somehow missed when he entered the room in his single-mindedness. She was an intern, Shane thought, no normal, sane person would be working at the office this late. She stared at him, wide-eyed, mouth agape.

“Shane?” she said timidly, and it was funny that she knew his name, because he couldn't remember her name for the life of him. He and Ryan must've been the talk of the office, what with disappearing while investigating a gruesome murder and all.

“Go home,” he croaked, for lack of a better response. “It's late.” And wow, he really did sound kind of like a chain smoker. Or like he had crawled through the fiery pits of hell on his hands and knees with his mouth open just to breathe in the ash. He knew he looked like hell, too, covered in mud, blood, and bruises.

Shane couldn't tell if the girl looked more scared or more shocked. He nodded at her, heading back towards the stairs. No need to linger.

Returning to the Volvo’s passenger seat found him a very tense, but seemingly-okay-otherwise Ryan. He didn't even wait for Shane to buckle his seatbelt before he was starting the engine and lurching out of the lot. Shane got the impression that staying still for too long made him nervous.

“Drive it to mine,” he whispered hoarsely.

“H-Huh?”

“My place,” he clarified. He really needed to stop talking, it was hurting him quite a lot.

“Oh. Okay.”

Shane had thought Ryan would object, but he actually looked almost pleased that Shane had said something about the destination again, as if he'd been driving directionlessly before.

Pulling into the driveway of his apartment complex felt so surreal that Shane pinched himself, then pinched Ryan, just for shits and giggles.

“Ouch! Dude, what the hell?” Ryan rubbed his arm, but he didn't actually look mad. Shane just smiled. This was real. This was it. They had actually made it fucking home.

Shane had never felt a relief so strong as the one he felt when he unlocked his door and saw his living room for the first time in a week. He had only been away for a few days, but it felt as though he was a captain who'd been at sea for months. Ryan, for his part, looked absolutely elated that everything was exactly where it had been when they left, that nothing had been trashed or thrown around in Shane’s absence. He and Shane both double and triple-checked that the door was locked behind them before continuing further inside.

Ryan stripped down to his underwear and promptly collapsed on Shane’s bed, while Shane opted for a shower. He had to hold the wall to keep from collapsing under the weight of his exhaustion and mostly just stood under the hot water, but it felt so good on his aching joints and dirty skin that for a moment, it didn't matter.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been in there, but by the time he returned to his room in his pajamas, Ryan was out cold on top of his covers. Shane smiled, feeling something warm in his chest like safety as he pulled the covers out from under him and covered his sleeping form, then crawled in next to him. The bed felt like a damn cloud after sleeping on the damp forest floor the night before, and Shane couldn't resist wriggling happily into the soft sheets for a moment before settling on his back. He wasn't touching Ryan, but he could feel the warmth of him by his side. Tentatively brushing the back of Ryan’s hand with his knuckles, he felt that same warmth there, alive. The heat of Ryan’s hand was what kept him afloat as he drifted off into unconsciousness and was lost to his exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the kind comments on the last chapter! <3
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr @crappylittledemon!


	3. no answer

Ryan awoke to a furious flurry of dings from his phone, which was inconveniently plugged in across the room. Head pounding, he groaned and snuggled further into the warm body he'd been pressed into and squinted his eyes shut. He felt like shit, but hiding from his wakefulness wouldn't make it go away; once he was up, he was up. He stretched, rolled over, sat up, and almost screamed.

Sure, he'd made the same mistake when he’d woken up in the forest, but it was still jarring to feel a person sleeping next to him, only to see Shane’s sleeping face instead of Helen’s. Shaking his head, he rolled his shoulders back until they popped, sighing heavily. He didn't know why he still expected to see her lying beside him, anyway.

Ryan took stock of his surroundings: not his white sheets, too-dim bedroom because Shane’s venetian blinds were thicker than his, pale blue walls, carpet under his feet instead of hardwood, and yeah, he told himself as he plodded over to his screaming phone, he was in Shane's apartment. He was in Shane’s bedroom, and had slept in his bed with him, and that totally wasn't weird at all because they'd just gotten back from a murder-town where they’d both had several consecutive attempts made on their lives and okay Ryan, you're _not_ thinking about that anymore. The point was that neither of them was going to sleep out alone on the couch, and they’d both wanted it, whatever. That thought jolted Ryan a little bit; it sounded like he was rationalizing a one-night-stand to himself, instead of whatever the fuck they'd just done. No, he _knew_ what they'd just done. They'd just fucking slept. _Next_ to each other, not _together._

Jesus, he needed some coffee.

Ryan felt strange. He knew he was in Shane’s apartment, but hot fear continued to crawl just beneath his skin like fire ants. He wasn't sure why he still felt so on edge, he'd only just woken up and he was safe now (he hoped), but it was starting to kindle a growing panic inside him and he tried his best to tamp it down like burning embers into the wet earth.

He yanked his phone out of the charger and switched it onto silent, settling back onto the edge of the bed as he regarded the screen. It was surprising the thing even still worked at all after getting soaked in that godforsaken river.

_13 missed calls, 102 new messages_

Ten of the calls were from his mom, spanning the full course of the past week or so. The last three, surprisingly, were from Sara, the most recent being only a few minutes prior. Ryan guessed that she was trying to reach Shane through him, since Shane’s phone was long gone (yet another sacrifice to the river). If she called again, Ryan decided, he would answer.

The earliest messages were mostly from some of his closer friends at work who’d started texting when he'd been in Keddie for only a few days. They all seemed concerned, and when Ryan checked the time stamps, he felt sick. Most of the texts had been sent before they had even gotten into trouble, before they'd even gotten stuck in Keddie with slashed tires and a mob of murderers. His friends had been worried first; if only the reception in Keddie (or rather, lack thereof) had allowed those warnings to reach them sooner.

The rapid-fire texts that had woken him seemed to be from just about every coworker who had his number, current and former, in addition to some numbers he didn't recognize. They all invariably communicated the same message: apparently, he said-she said-they said that he-she-they'd heard Shane was in the office late last night, but none of them could reach him, so they were all wondering if the two of them were really home safe and okay. Suddenly, Sara’s numerous calls to his phone made more sense.

Well, that was sweet. Ryan watched the messages pour in with a profound sense of detachment. It was sort of heartwarming, so many people each taking a moment of their time to check on his wellbeing, but he wondered how much of it was just a social chain reaction. Ryan could see the office now in his mind’s eye: one frenzied intern claims she saw Shane last night, probably just about as credible as when Joanna claimed she set a ghost loose in Conference Room C after filming that stupid haunted dolls video in there, but much like Joanna, the intern’s news is naturally enough to send their gossip-seeking coworkers into a frenzy (Ryan wouldn't set foot in that conference room for a month). The entire office erupts into chaos and surface-level sympathy for _poor Shane and Ryan_.

He was getting more and more texts now from unknown numbers. Relative strangers shirking their morning grind to pretend to care about him. It was making him rather uncomfortable, if he was being honest.

Ryan sighed and felt his bones collapse with it. He made viral videos for a living; he knew a thing or two about being living clickbait. It just felt miles more inappropriate than usual, given the situation.

Suddenly, Helen’s name popped up at the top of the notification screen, snagging Ryan’s attention like a fish hook through murky water. He dug his nails into the duvet as he scanned the screen.

_Steven just told me Shane was in the office last night?! I checked ur apartment but you werent there, where r u? Are you in LA?? Are you ok?? Please answer me Im scared_

Ryan was abruptly overcome with a powerful urge to sprint out of Shane’s front door and not stop until he was at his own place and wrapped in her embrace. He needed to feel her, hear her voice, smell her, _anything_ to get some sense of normalcy and escape from this madness and disillusionment that seemed to have entrapped him. But (there was always that _but_ )—

Helen probably didn't want him like that anymore. Hell, he _knew_ she didn't. They'd broken up months ago, and even though it’d been mutual and they had agreed to stay friends, it had still been rough for Ryan in the beginning. Quite frankly, though, what he was feeling at the moment was ridiculous. He missed Helen, but he'd been sure he was over it. This was something else, this bone-deep want, this  _need_ to be comforted.

Ryan all at once felt like a little kid again, overcome with the need for a good, long hug to placate his tumultuous emotions, a tight embrace that in a perfect world would never end. He'd gotten a taste of it the night before, when Shane had held him steady only for a brief moment in that awful car and wiped his tears like he was five fucking years old. This was terrible. He couldn't ask Helen or Shane to give him this enormous _thing_ he felt he needed. He didn't know if anyone could give it to him.

He sighed again. He had a feeling he'd be doing that a lot, lately.

Ryan looked behind him at Shane’s sleeping face. His mouth was slightly open, his face placid, and he looked so peaceful and vulnerable nestled into the cloudlike sheets that it made Ryan almost angry. He felt a surge of _something_ run through him like a sparking flare—maybe protectiveness, or safety, but he wasn't going to dwell on it. Regardless of what it was, he knew it meant he wasn't leaving just yet. Turning back around, he let his brain autopilot a response to Helen.

_I’m at Shane’s apartment. We’re both okay. We can talk later._

He knew the message was a little cryptic, but his hands were shaking again for some reason, so keeping it succinct was probably his best bet.

“Coffee,” he mumbled to himself, pushing off the bed and striding into the hallway. “Coffee’s what I need.”

Ryan threw on his clothes that he'd been wearing for the past three days (gross, but necessary) and exited the room. And as he walked to the kitchen, he was not thinking about Shane’s hand covering his on the sticky diner table, he was vaguely remembering Shane saying he owned a Keurig machine. He was _not_ thinking about Shane’s calloused hands cupping his face, no, goddammit, he was thinking about coffee. Ryan Bergara was on a mission, and it was _not_ to get a tender embrace from his co-host and best friend from who he was definitely _not_ desperately craving human contact, it was to get some fucking bean juice.

Ryan walked around the flat and compulsively closed all of the blinds in the place while the water boiled. Privacy was something that he was sure he'd never take for granted again. He thought of the trashed cabin back in Keddie and felt an involuntary tremble run through his body. Sure, the CIA was probably watching his mental break in real-time with popcorn in their laps through his phone camera, but at least now Shane’s nosy neighbors and whoever-the-fuck passed by on the street below wouldn't have the privilege.

Pacing was Ryan’s new prerogative. He wasn't sure when he'd started, but he couldn't stop now. Through the kitchen, around the couch, _don't stub your toe on the coffee table again_ , pass the hall, loop back around to the kitchen. The Keurig signaled that it was ready to brew, but Ryan suddenly wasn't feeling so hot on it anymore, mostly because he had gained so much momentum pacing now and nobody was around to stop him. He didn't think he was spiraling, okay no, maybe he was spiraling a _little,_ but he was in Shane’s apartment, not the fucking Sallie House or Keddie or wherever-the-hell it was that struck the most fear into his heart, so it couldn't be _that_ bad. Ryan thought, fuguely, that this was the shittiest he'd felt in a long, long time. And he knew, despairingly, that even though he desperately wanted the world to cut him a break, he didn't deserve it. This was all his fault.

He stubbed his toe on the coffee table.

 

* * *

 

There was this stupid shuffling noise coming from down the hall, repetitive and unceasing, like something dragging along the floor. Shane’s first thought was that it was his cat, but then immediately remembered that Mr. Bean was his childhood pet and had been dead for eight and a half years, so, what the fuck. Shane rolled over, pulling a pillow over his head. It didn't do much; he could still hear it.

Sitting up, he looked around. The door was open, which was certainly strange, and the other side of the bed was all messed up like someone had slept in it and _oh yeah._ Suddenly, it all came back to him. Filming the Keddie video, getting stuck there, getting hanged, killing some guys, making a getaway car out of a dead murderer’s clunker, bringing Ryan back to his home and into his bed, y'know. Just an average week in the zany life of Shane Madej.

Feeling about ninety percent more disconcerted than he did a second ago, Shane got up and looked around again. No sign of Ryan, but he wasn't willing to bet anything that he'd left. So, maybe that sound was just Ryan pacing. Cool. Alright. He should go check on him, then.

His guess had been right on the nose: Ryan was busy doing controlled laps around Shane’s small living space, and it looked like he'd been at it for quite a while. He appeared more tense than Shane had ever seen him, wringing his hands tightly and staring blankly with wide eyes at some middle distance in front of him. He was also limping. Shane felt his brow crease at that—had Ryan’s leg gotten injured and Shane somehow hadn't noticed? It was definitely possible. He watched silently as Ryan strode right past him, not even seeming to notice he was standing there.

Shane thought for a minute. Standing right in Ryan’s path and trying to stop him in his tracks like some sort of demented football defense was definitely not going to work. Shane didn't doubt that Ryan would just bowl him right over, then snap out of it too late and just feel worse than before because he caused Shane to nearly brain himself on the coffee table.

He opened his mouth to call out to Ryan, but all that came out was a strained wheeze, and shit, that hurt. Well, he thought as he waited for Ryan to limp past again before skirting around to the kitchen area, that wasn't a good sign. Physically being unable to speak, that is. As he poked around looking for something to drink, he smiled, because at least he could still find humor in the situational irony that all he could do now was wheeze. The fans would fucking love it.

Ryan had boiled water for coffee, but hadn't actually made any. And here Shane was like always, finishing what Ryan started—capping off all his attempts to contact ghosts, solve mysteries, make coffee, with a healthy dose of common sense. As he took his first sip of tea, Shane already felt much better, that euphoric feeling of the first sip of caffeine made almost orgasmic due to going several days without it. Ryan deserved to partake in this legal drug, too, so Shane brewed him a cup of “morning blend” coffee and kept a watchful eye on him as he continued to determinedly wear trenches into Shane’s floorboards.

Ryan suddenly threw his hands up into his hair and grabbed at it like some sort of madman, stopping in his tracks near Shane’s couch. He let out this small, choked sound from the back of his throat, and shit, he looked like he might scream or something. Alright, enough was enough. Shane cleared his throat and tried again.

“Ryan,” he said, and it actually almost sounded like his normal voice—major plus.

Ryan snapped his head up so quickly Shane was afraid he might have given himself whiplash. Shane didn't know what to do with his hands, so he picked up Ryan’s mug of coffee and held it up alongside his own. This was sort of freaky, but he was _not_ freaking out.

“Coffee?” he asked, and hell yeah, voice still going strong.

Ryan stared straight at Shane and stayed where he was. Shane sighed and set both mugs down before maneuvering around the counter and approaching Ryan, who was standing so still and tense that he could have been some sort of freaky, avant-garde art installation chilling next to Shane’s sofa. _“Terrified man,”_ _sculpture, petrified wood, 2017._ The only parts of him that were moving were his hands, which were shaking quite a lot. He was clenching and unclenching his fists so tightly it looked painful.

“Ryan, hey,” Shane started, and when he lowered his voice like this he was practically inaudible, but he knew Ryan was listening to his every breath and footfall. “Hey man, it's okay. We're okay.”

Ryan continued doing his best impression of a deer caught in the headlights, making this sound in his mouth like he was grinding his teeth together. Shane breathed out and blinked at him slowly, like Ryan was a cat and he was trying to gain his trust or something. Shane wasn't an idiot. He'd been Ryan’s personal sidekick as the guy inexplicably dragged him along to all the places of his worst nightmares. He'd _seen_ Ryan scared before. Shane had been right there for every on-location freakout, the ones Ryan always cut out in the final edit, offering his best friend a few pats on the shoulder and some words of reassurance until Ryan always assured him that he was fine, _no, dude, seriously, really,_ he was _fine_.

This fear, though, was obviously too big and too senseless for Ryan to push down until they finished a shoot and then forget about it with cheap beer afterwards. It wasn't going to go away with a few shoulder pats and whatever bullshit Shane decided to feed him that day about the nonexistence of the supernatural or the homicide rate in L.A. No, this was nothing at all like Shane telling Ryan that ghosts weren't real or how the chances of someone breaking into his apartment and murdering him were slim to none.

Ryan, Shane knew, wasn't afraid of any specific thing. He was just _afraid_. And that was the worst thing to be, because Shane couldn't logic away residual fear, he could only compartmentalize it into tiny little boxes and shove it into the furthest corners of his mind and just hope it didn't come bursting out at some inopportune moment. And just because Shane could pack his post-traumatic stress away and pretend it wasn't there, it didn't mean Ryan could do the same. So, he did the only thing he could do.

He stood back and spread open his arms.

Shane didn't think that he'd ever seen anyone rush into a hug so quickly in his life. One moment, Ryan was paralyzed in front of him, the next, he was pressed against Shane’s chest and squeezing the life out of him. Ryan was just _squeezing_ him with his stupidly beefy arms with all of his might, like some sort of hungry boa constrictor. Shane gently brought his arms up around Ryan and rubbed his back, trying and failing to breathe deeply. Ryan eventually let up his vicelike grip by a fraction, only to start scrabbling with his hands at Shane’s back like Shane was an unwieldy pile of silk ribbons that Ryan couldn't gather up all at once no matter how hard he tried, only seeming to unravel him further. Everything about the way Ryan embraced him was ravenous, desperate. He finally got some semblance of a solid grip on Shane’s shoulder blades, then buried his whole face into Shane’s chest. Shane could feel Ryan’s hands trembling where they grabbed him. Ryan was breathing harder than normal. It was Shane’s turn to be still as a statue.

“Holy shit, Ryan, that was the most intense hug I've ever received in my life,” he mumbled goodnaturedly after a long pause, still slightly struggling to breathe. He set his chin on top of Ryan’s head in a way that he hoped was comforting and ran his fingers through his hair, which was admittedly pretty gross and greasy. His other hand remained a firm weight on the small of Ryan’s back.

“Shut up, Shane,” Ryan said into his chest, muffled by his shirt. His voice sounded all weird and tight. Shane frowned and carded his fingers gently upward, teasing Ryan’s unwashed hair into little peaks.

“You can cry if you need to, Ry,” he rasped.

Ryan did nothing, said nothing, only tightened his grip slightly.

“Really, it's okay,” Shane encouraged.

Honestly, he sort of hoped Ryan would cry. It would suck to see, but then at least one of them would have some sort of emotional outlet and it wouldn't turn into some twisted game of seeing who would break first.

Ryan kept his face buried, like he didn't want Shane to see it. They stood like that for a long time, long enough that Shane eventually guided them both to sit on the couch. A few moments after that, Ryan pulled back and sniffed. Shane looked down. His shirt was dry.

“Thank you,” Ryan said after a few seconds, looking at Shane with this emotion that was just as intense as it was unplaceable. He looked and sounded like he'd been crying, but his eyes were fairly dry. He’d just sucked it all in, like the manly bastard he was.

Damn you, Ryan Bergara.

“No problem,” Shane said, giving Ryan’s shoulder a few customary pats and lingering for a moment before getting up and retrieving their now-lukewarm mugs. He had just handed Ryan his coffee and was about to resume his seat beside him when a series of deafening thumps on his front door reverberated throughout his apartment.

_BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG_

To his credit, Shane did not drop his mug when he jolted, only sloshed a healthy amount of earl grey tea all over his arm. Ryan, on the other hand, nearly jumped out of his skin, throwing the mug from his hands and succeeding in getting coffee all over both himself and the wall, where the mug shattered against the white plaster and Ryan let out a very unmanly shriek that he would undoubtedly deny later.

“Shane!” a voice that was unmistakably his brother’s shouted from the other side of the door, followed by more unrelenting pounds at the door. “Shane! Are you in there?”

Ryan just looked up at Shane, appearing absolutely shell-shocked, and dammit, now he was all shaken up again right after Shane had just finished calming him down. He knew he couldn't be mad at Scott, but still. Ryan was back to trembling like a fucking chihuahua.

Hearing Scott’s voice sent through Shane a wave of emotions that seemed too complex to sort through in the moment. It seemed ridiculous to admit it to himself, but he’d almost forgotten about his family amidst all the turmoil of the past week. Sure, in the bleakest moments he’d thought about what the hell his mother would do if he died, but he’d been almost solely focused on getting Ryan and himself out of Keddie alive. Scott’s voice on his ears, the same familiar timbre it had always been, was a stark reminder that the outside world hadn’t changed at all, not one bit, whilst he and Ryan had been permanently altered. Scott kept on wailing on the metal door with his fists, and Ryan kept flinching at every loud thump, and Shane felt bad for getting lost in thought even for a second. He nodded at Ryan before moving to the door and unlocking it.

Scott didn't stop his barrage of fists in time and ended up punching Shane twice in the chest before he realized Shane had swung the door open, and ow, that kind of hurt. Scott stumbled back, then, his eyes growing as wide as dinner plates, before he launched himself at Shane and he found himself on the receiving end of yet another incredibly intense hug in the span of the past half hour. Scott wasn't quite as strong as Ryan, but what he lacked in strength he made up for doubly in ferocity.

“Oh my _God_ , Shane,” Scott whispered in his ear.

“Hey, it's okay, I’m okay,” he rasped, and choked a little, because his voice was starting to go again. Taking a few steps back with Scott still firmly attached to him, he closed and locked the door. He slowly lowered himself and sat on the floor, and Scott followed suit, pulling back and dropping himself down in front of Shane.

“Shane,” he breathed out again. “Oh my fucking God, Shane.”

“I know,” Shane said, because what else could he have said? They were sitting on his shoe mat.

Scott leaned back and regarded him. Shane was struck by the heavy shadows under his red-rimmed eyes, the way his hair laid flat and tangled like he hadn't washed it in several days. Shane all of a sudden felt very guilty, even though he knew it wasn't really his fault. He knew he didn’t see his brother all that much even though he also lived in L.A. due to work and all, but still...he was _family_. Of course he would’ve been sick with worry. Then his eyes fell on Shane’s neck, and he gasped.

“Oh _shit_ , what happened?” he whispered, horrified. He tentatively reached out to touch the burn but Shane caught his wrist in mid-air, holding it. He just shook his head; he didn't want to have to relive that experience ever again, and every pitying question or painful touch was just a reminder. Just thinking about remembering filled him with a deep revulsion, permanent and all-encompassing. Scott clapped him on the shoulder in what was meant to be a comforting gesture and started talking, but Shane wasn't really listening.

“Where’s Ryan?” Scott was asking, standing up. Shane stood as well and looked back towards the couch, where Ryan was still standing, only slightly less frozen than before. He was staring at Shane with this look that was profoundly uncomfortable. Scott followed his gaze and took in the brown liquid slowly dripping down the wall, the enormous coffee stain on Ryan’s front, and the shattered mug on the floor, and gasped again.

“Shit, did I cause that?” he scurried into the kitchen and started somewhat frenetically wetting dish towels and grabbing a dustpan. “Let me help you clean that up, Ryan, I’m so sorry, shit.”

Shane heard Ryan mumble something like “It’s okay,” but the guy stepped aside nonetheless and let Scott clean up his mess. Ryan shifted on the balls of his feet and wrung his hands. His left big toe looked almost blood-red. He flexed his toes and winced. Shane had never seen Ryan look so distinctly awkward and out-of-place.

Just as Scott was sweeping up the last bit of shattered ceramic, Ryan turned to Shane with that face he got whenever he was about to say something utterly stupid.

“I should go,” he said, and yeah, that was pretty stupid.

“Ryan—” Shane tried, but Ryan was already across the room and shoving his feet into his ruined designer sneakers.

“Ryan, you don't have to leave, c’mon, it's fine!” Scott said, joining Shane. Ryan shook his head and winced again as he slid his left foot into his shoe.

“No, it's okay. I'll just go.”

The worst part about this, Shane thought, was that Ryan’s voice was starting to sound all tight and thin and wrong again, and there was nothing he could do about it because Scott’s hand was heavy on his shoulder, protective and firm. And Ryan was leaving. Ryan was leaving.

“I'll text you,” Ryan said to Shane, followed by a suspiciously curt “Bye,” to the both of them, as he swung the door open and ducked out. The chain on the door rattled. It was a lonely sound.

“Wonder what that was about,” Scott said, squeezing Shane’s shoulder once.

Shane sighed in weary defeat. He stared at the closed door and listened hard, but as it was a metal door and not a person, it said nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and in the end, ryan never got to drink that damn coffee.
> 
> sorry this chapter was so delayed, life got in the way and...yeah. school is kicking my ass. i will try to have the next update up sooner! and thank you so much everyone for all the wonderful feedback on the last chapter <3
> 
> my tumblr is crappylittledemon if you wanna yell at me about this story or ask questions!


	4. blistering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw in this chapter for an emotional breakdown and (vague and very brief) suicidal ideation

Ryan bit his tongue and hobbled down the stairs of Shane’s apartment building and out into the street. He ignored Marilyn’s car in the parking lot because he was so worked up at the moment that he didn't think he could drive, plus he was pretty sure he’d left the keys in Shane’s apartment, anyway. He determined the direction of his apartment from there and started walking. It would be quite a trek, but he needed to clear his head and he also didn't have a choice.

He was really having a hard time holding in his tears at this point, and the tongue-biting thing didn't feel like it was going to work for much longer. God, he felt so stupid, and worthless, and _terrible_. Watching Shane with his brother like that shouldn't have made him feel this way, but it did, and Ryan blamed the heightened emotions from his ongoing panic. Plus, it was justified. It was so justified. Even if Ryan wasn't losing his fucking mind, he'd still feel awkward as hell third-wheeling their reunion. He couldn't keep clinging to Shane like he had earlier, when Shane’s family deserved his attention more.

Ryan was a fucking idiot, though. “I'll text you”? Why the hell had he said that?! Shane didn't have a phone anymore, obviously, and he was a fucking fool because now he wouldn't have any way of contacting Shane, and it had only been five minutes and Ryan already missed him. Fuck.

“Fuck!” Ryan shouted out loud, with feeling. A young woman walking down the sidewalk with her toddler picked up her kid and crossed the street. Ryan watched her go with shaking hands and chattering teeth. He wasn't crazy, he wasn't crazy, _God, he was fucking going crazy._

Ryan quickened his pace. It was fine. Shane needed some time alone with his brother, and Ryan needed to go the fuck home and get his shit together and man up about _anything_ for once in his life. He wasn't dead, or dying, and the sun was shining. But he certainly felt like he'd died days ago, like he had left his soul back in Keddie, and the sun was like an oppressive, blistering ball of fire in the sky. It was ridiculous how Keddie could be so frigid, and somehow L.A. still felt like the seventh circle of hell. Ryan was sweating like a pig under his jacket, but he felt safer with it on. He bit his tongue harder, so he bled.

Shane was back at his comfy, white apartment that was warm and soft and smelled like coffee now because Ryan ruined his mug and his wall and his floor and he was being comforted by his brother, and Ryan was going home to a dark, empty apartment. And he had nobody. That thought alone was enough to make the tears finally fall. Ryan truly had nobody. He was alone.

Ryan wasn't sure if people were staring because he was staggering and limping, or because of the gargantuan coffee stain all over his front, or because he was wearing a jacket in hundred-degree weather, or because he was a grown man shuffling down the street with tears streaming down his face. It was probably all of the above. The eyes on him felt like they were burning into his skin, judging him, scorning him. He got a few “Are you okay, sir?”s, but he just kept pressing on under the oppressive view of the city, crying and limping and looking altogether like a human garbage fire.

There were so many people, it was so fucking hot, and he felt so hypersensitive and overexposed. His teeth tasted salty and his mouth felt full of blood. He kept his eyes trained on the sidewalk, one foot in front of the other, and today, the pale cement looked tinged with red. The buildup of sweat in his eyebrows ran into his eyes and made his them burn with new intensity.

Ryan tried to think of other low points in his life, but none of them even came close to this. He was sobbing and bloody and stained and greasy and awful and dragging himself down the street like some horrid mix of the crying drunk girl outside a college party and a homeless bum. For the first time in his life, Ryan considered dying. The sweet calmness and simplicity of death sounded much more peaceful than how he was feeling in that moment. It would be so easy to just lie down on the sidewalk and not get back up. He stopped at the mouth of an alley and actually considered it, for a moment. Lying down on the sidewalk and just letting the sun fry him like an egg.

“ _Ryan?”_

Oh, Jesus Christ.

Ryan lived closer to the Buzzfeed office than Shane did, and it was about one in the afternoon, so walking in that direction, he should have anticipated the possibility of running into a coworker. But he hadn't. This seriously couldn't get any worse. Ryan just wanted to crawl into his bed and hide himself away from the eyes of man under four layers of blankets. Against his every impulse to recoil away and continue on with his head down, he stopped and looked up. He didn't want to be a dick.

Jen had pulled her car over to the sidewalk in a haste, which probably explained some of the indignant honking he'd heard a few moments earlier. She wasn't even in a parking space, and one of her front wheels was up on the curb. She leapt out of the driver’s side, nearly missing traffic as she ran around the car to stand in front of Ryan on the sidewalk. Jen called his name again, then, sounding more subdued and concerned now that she'd gotten a better look at the state he was in.

Ryan’s face did this weird twisty thing, because he wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or burst out sobbing again. Equal parts incredibly relieved and utterly mortified to see a familiar face, he didn't know if he wanted to tell Jen he was happy to see her or if he wanted to tell her to leave him alone and never look at him again.

What actually came out was, “Fuck. Hi, Jen.” His voice was so weak and wobbly that he regretted even opening his mouth.

She took him in, eyes wide and worried. Ryan was suddenly even more aware of the snot all over his upper lip and his unshaven face and the way his greasy, sweaty hair clung to his forehead like he was about to hunch over and start crowing, “ _my precioussss_.” He sniffled surreptitiously.

“Oh, Ryan,” Jen said, and her tone was so sympathetic that it really made Ryan want to start bawling. He maintained his silent flow of tears, though, and regarded his friend through bloodshot eyes.

“Are you walking home?” she asked.

Ryan nodded.

“From Shane’s?”

Ryan nodded again. His tongue hurt.

“Jesus, Ryan, that's like a forty-five minute walk. It's unbearable out today.”

Ryan couldn't help but agree. It was like a portal to hell had opened up in the sky and it was raining down fire upon him. Jen blinked at him and seemed to make a snap decision.

“Alright. Get in the car.”

She walked around and slid back into the driver's seat, reaching over and popping open the passenger door. Ryan stared down at her.

“C’mon, Ryan, I'll drive you home.”

Well, it wasn't like he had much of a choice. He didn't seem to have much of a choice in anything, nowadays. He got into the car.

Jen drove in relative silence for a while, Ryan giving directions mainly through pointing and mumbling. He'd stopped crying, but it hadn't been as cathartic as he’d hoped it would be. Now that he was done crying, he just felt embarrassed. He still felt miserable, and the car’s A/C blasting in his face just made him feel sticky.

“You'd feel better if you took that jacket off, y'know,” Jen said.

“No,” Ryan croaked.

“Come on, please trust me. You'll feel so much better. Show off those arms, buff boy,” she joked, but it was a little forced. Ryan belatedly remembered that one side of the jacket was splattered with blood and added that to his mental list of Reasons Why People Were Staring At The Freak. He considered that Jen wanted him to take it off because it was making her uncomfortable.

Ryan gave in quickly, because he was in no position to argue. As soon as the cool air hit his damp skin he shivered violently, but after a few moments, he did feel a little less gross, despite also feeling much more exposed. He hated that Jen was right. That jacket seriously needed a wash, though. He was also acutely aware that he smelled awful, but opening a window would result in letting in all that oppressive heat, and it was so blessedly cool in this car. Jen wrinkled her nose but seemed pleased that he'd taken her advice.

Jen parked in front of Ryan’s apartment complex and shut off the engine, but didn't unlock the doors.

“I'm really, really happy to see you, Ryan,” she said, sounding more serious than Ryan had ever heard her. He nodded.

Ryan could feel her eyes on him, like she was waiting for him to say something or get out or do _anything_. She couldn't _not_ have questions—he and Shane had literally disappeared for a week and then she'd found him stumbling down the street, covered in dirt and blood and crying his eyes out. Ryan stared down at his hands. They were still shaking a little bit, infuriatingly unsteady. There were little crescent-shaped indentations in his palms from how frequently he'd been clenching his hands into fists.

“Alright,” Jen said after a few silent minutes. She unlocked the doors and got out of the car, then opened Ryan’s door. “Let's go, buddy.”

Ryan sighed, clambering out with his jacket under his arm. Jen followed close behind him as Ryan shambled across the shimmering asphalt.

His apartment was, predictably, dark and empty. Ryan thought of all the cool movie posters and various nerdy memorabilia hanging on the walls of Shane’s apartment and remembered how his own walls used to be full of little photographs back when Helen still lived with him. Artsy little photos of flowers, Polaroids of the two of them together at Disneyland, at fancy restaurants, on their anniversary dates through the years. The bareness of the white walls now just made the place seem more barren. At least Jen was here. Ryan didn't think he could handle crying any more.

“Wow,” Jen said, stepping in around Ryan. “Your place is really...neat.”

Ryan nodded absently, but it was more like his head moved on its own, lolling forward. The blood, sweat, and tears had really taken a lot out of him, and he suddenly felt as though he was about to collapse. All the sudden changes in temperature and rapid shifts in his emotional state over the past few hours had made him feel dizzy and nauseous.

“Okay, Bergara, shower time,” Jen burst out, seeming to sense Ryan’s exhaustion. She ushered him into his bathroom with a hand at his back and thrust a towel into his arms. “Gimme that jacket, I’ll wash it for you.”

Ryan shrugged the jacket from off his shoulder into Jen’s arms and dropped the towel on the floor, then fell to his knees and promptly vomited into the toilet. Jen gasped and made a sound of disgust, but remained in the doorway.

“Ryan,” she started, once he was finished and was just dry heaving and spitting into the bowl. She paused for a while, like she wasn't sure what she wanted to say. Ryan moaned, then retched again. This fucking sucked. He was sort of crying again but now it was just because he felt so physically miserable.

“I don't know what happened, and I'm not gonna make you tell me yet, but you're obviously not okay, so I'm gonna stay here for a while to make sure you don't die or anything,” Jen said, still lingering in the doorway.

This made Ryan laugh, for some reason. He hoped Jen wouldn't take offense to it.

“I should be dead,” he murmured.

“What?”

“I shoulda died.”

Ryan once again wasn't sure what his face wanted to do, so he tried his best to keep it neutral. Caught between laughing and breaking down, he felt everything all at once. Being alive in this moment was the most surreal thing he'd ever experienced.

Jen pursed her lips. “I'm staying, Ryan.”

“Worst lunch break ever,” Ryan mumbled.

Jen gave a startled little laugh at that, then backed out of the doorway.

“I'm gonna go throw this in the washer downstairs,” she said, holding the jacket at arm’s length, “maybe stain treat it. I know this is your favorite jacket, so I'll try my best to salvage it.”

The jacket was so very obviously beyond saving, but the fact that Jen was willing to try was nice.

“Go take a shower,” she told Ryan again. “You'll feel better. I won't be far.” She closed the bathroom door, and just like that, Ryan was alone again.

He was so utterly exhausted that shutting off his brain for a few minutes so he could take a shower was actually surprisingly easy. Ryan emerged feeling more like himself and calmer than he'd felt in the past week. He still had no desire to look at himself in the mirror, though, escaping the room before the steam cleared. Another day.

Jen was waiting at his kitchen table when he came out of the bathroom. Ryan had spent more time in the shower than he’d thought, and he knew that this was way past Jen’s allotted lunch break. Jen just smiled, wordlessly made him a packet of instant ramen, and watched him while he drank a whole bottle of water, making sure he was rehydrated. She must have had countless questions about the situation, but she didn't ask them, just quietly inquiring from time to time about how he was feeling.

Ryan was suddenly very glad that it had been Jen who had run into him. He was still incredibly embarrassed that she had seen him in such a state, but he and Jen were close, and besides that, the shame wasn't as bad as it probably would have been if he’d had a run-in with a male colleague. Women were more in touch with their emotions, or something like that. Jen wasn't exactly the mushy, emotional type, but he appreciated the fact that she seemed to understand that he needed space and didn't interrogate him about his humiliating breakdown.

Eventually, the moved to the couch, where they both scrolled through their phones in comfortable silence, with some basketball game playing lowly on the TV providing some ambient background noise.

“Shane just texted me,” Jen said after a while, squinting at her phone. “From his brother’s phone. He said that his brother is with him and his family is flying out tonight.”

“I know.”

“I told him I'm with you.”

“Okay.”

Jen regarded Ryan for a while, like she was debating whether or not to say something to him. Ryan continued pretending to read his missed work emails and acted like he didn't notice.

“He said he's pretty worried about you, that you left there pretty suddenly earlier. Why'd you run outta there like that?”

Ryan curled his shoulders up to his ears and stared intently at the tabletop. He hadn't wanted to make Shane worry.

“I don't know.”

“Did something happen with Shane? You were...pretty upset, before.” Jen seemed awkward about bringing it up. That made two of them.

“No,” Ryan said.

Nothing had actually happened. He didn't know what had even set him off. He was just a wussy, apparently. He had let himself cry and he hadn't even felt any better afterwards, so he 10/10 would _not_ recommend having a bitchfit in public to a friend.

“Do you miss him?”

“Yeah.” Ryan hesitated, twisting his hands together. “I miss him a lot,” he added.

Jen sighed and Ryan knew she was making _that_ face. Sometimes when they talked about Shane she would give him this weird look, caught between exasperation and fondness, and he could never figure out why.

“Well, can I relay that you were upset before but you're feeling better now?”

Ryan honestly wasn't sure how he felt. It wasn't good, but it was a slight improvement from earlier, he supposed. He was just so drained, it was like his whole body was numb.

“Sure,” he said.

A few minutes later, Jen said she had to leave. It had gotten surprisingly late—it was almost five P.M. She told Ryan she'd check in with him tomorrow to see how he was doing. He nodded, and then she was gone. The apartment was silent, and the windows were darkening.

Ryan crawled into bed, because he had nothing better to do and it beat moping around by himself. Pulling the blankets up to his face and settling in, he achieved the slightest semblance of serenity. As he waited for sleep to take him, he reached out with a shaky hand and drummed a pattern on his mattress, feeling the firm, cloudlike surface beneath the drumming pads of his fingers.

_thrrump. thrrump. thrrump._

 

* * *

 

Shane startled awake at around midnight to the loud ringing of his landline. He gingerly extricated himself from the blankets and made his way down the hall and into the living room, careful not to make noise and disturb Scott, who had crashed on his couch..

There were only two possible people who could be calling his landline in the middle of the night: a telemarketer with a deathwish, or Ryan.

Scott had decided to take the rest of the day off to spend time with him; he had bombarded Shane with questions at first, to which he’d responded with answers that were vague enough for him to still feel comfortable but not so oblique that Scott got frustrated with him. Though, upon realizing that his throat was in fact injured pretty severely, much like Ryan, he had ordered him into silence and made him about a million cups of tea to drink. That was the Madej way: a hot beverage could cure any ailment. Not that Shane was complaining—he loved tea—but there was only so much tea a man could drink in a day. They had spent most of the day just watching old _Frasier_ episodes and some lighthearted yet laughably bad 80’s family movies that Scott had found on daytime TV.

Shane was happy to see his brother, really, he was overjoyed, but he couldn't stop thinking about Ryan all day. The way he had just suddenly left that morning had been—well, it had been strange. While Scott had watched the TV and laughed every so often at a particularly corny line, Shane had silently agonized over Ryan’s mysterious exit. He’d seemed really upset—no, he had been really freaking out. Seriously bugging. Bona fide panic attack. And Shane didn't know how comfortable he was with just letting Ryan go home alone and be by himself when he was left in a state like that. No, he knew how comfortable he was with it: he wasn't.

Scott’s arrival had seemed to trigger Ryan’s exit, which told Shane that Ryan probably had gotten the stupid idea into his head that Shane couldn't take care of him and have his family around at the same time. Ryan was in need of comfort; the fact that Shane had family that were sick with worry for him didn't change the fact that he still cared deeply for his best friend. God, what an idiot. Stupid little Mr. B. He was probably panicking at home right as Shane thought of him, alone and frightened, but Shane couldn't just leave Scott, who’d literally thought he was fucking _dead_ , to go find Ryan without a valid excuse. And Ryan hadn't called.

Scott had noticed his worry, obviously, because he was his brother and could read him like a extra-large-print library book. When Shane learned that Jen had run into Ryan and was staying with him at his place for a bit, it was a major relief. But Shane had known that she wouldn't stay over, and leaving Ryan alone for some reason felt like leaving a ticking bomb in a room full of flammable gas.

Shane curled his toes against the cold floor and remembered how badly Ryan had freaked out the previous night just because a stranger talked to him. He felt his stomach twist. Ryan was brave, in many ways much braver than Shane was, but he was obviously fragile right now. They both were. But Ryan needed him, and he should never have let him leave the building all those hours ago.

Shane picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

There was a long pause on the other end. Shane held his breath.

_Click._

“Hello, is this Shane Madej?”

God fucking damn it.

“No, it's the fuckin’ Easter bunny, and I'm on vacation. Go bother Santa.”

Shane slammed the phone back into the cradle with more force than was really necessary. Fucking telemarketers. He was pretty sure it was illegal to solicit past nine P.M. anyway.

He felt stupid for getting his hopes up about it being Ryan. If Ryan had called him this late at night, it would have probably been due to a nightmare, and we would've been there with him in minutes. God, now he was thinking about Ryan all alone in that achingly empty apartment again.

Shane trudged back to bed and laid on his back. He stared at the black, black void where the ceiling was supposed to be and let his mind race.

Shane thought about Ryan. He thought about his family out there, his mother wringing her hands and his father pacing the terminals of O’Hare, Scott out on the couch, snoring like a buzzsaw. He thought about how how the smell of pine seemed to cling to his skin even though he'd showered twice now, like the sticky sap from the forest floor and the branches that had whipped his face raw had worked its way down into his sweat and blood. He thought about the feeling of a man’s throat pulsing under his hands. Then he thought about the feeling of the clean sheets under his back, centering himself. He thought about the rope burn on his neck and wondered if it would scar. He imagined being old and wrinkled, pulling back his collar, telling his grandkids it was _quite a story_.

He swallowed. _Click._

He closed his eyes, and he clenched his jaw, and he thought about Ryan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is greatly appreciated <3
> 
> my tumblr is crappylittledemon if you wanna yell at me for all this angst


	5. falsity

 

Ryan blinked awake, bleary-eyed and damp with sweat. He breathed hard, chest heaving, body coursing with adrenaline yet lying heavy and still as a corpse, tangled in his sheets. With the paralyzing feeling of coming down from a nightmare that he could not recall, he laid still and forced himself to take a few deep breaths. The smell of fetid river water clung in his nose. He tried desperately to ignore it.

_In for 4, out for 4. In for 8, out for 8. In for...fuck it, I'm fine._

Dragging himself into the bathroom, he took another shower, because the sense of feeling filthy seemed to just follow him now, enveloping him like some sort of grimy, malodorous cloak that no amount of musky-scented body wash could scrub away. It was cloudy outside today, Ryan observed as he returned to his room and got dressed into some sweats. Bleak. Hair still dripping, Ryan grabbed his phone and, in a stunt of astounding normalcy, called in sick to work.

Ned was absolutely losing his mind. _Where have you been, where have you been, where have you been?!_ Ryan sighed. Talking felt like a major effort now, especially if he had to talk about _it_.

“Shane and I got into a situation,” Ryan said, like that explained anything at all.

“You're gonna have to, uh, give me more details, buddy.”

Ryan heard a muffled _“Are you talking to Ryan? Oh my God!”_ from somewhere behind Ned’s head. He didn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Ryan Bergara: ever the office sensation! The line crackled as Ned sighed.

Ryan tried to put himself in Ned Fulmer’s shoes. What are you supposed to do when you’re supervising the hosts of the company’s second-most-successful series (aside from your own), and they suddenly go missing for a week while investigating a chilling unsolved murder? It couldn't have looked good for him. Ryan tried to be sympathetic. It lasted for all of two seconds, until he realized he just didn't have the effort.

“Sorry. Shane and I will try to drop by sometime this week. We can talk more then.” Ryan said this like he had any idea of when or how he'd get in contact with Shane again.

“So are you just going to not come in, or—”

“I'm sick,” Ryan deadpanned. It wasn't a total lie; his head was pounding and his nose felt a little stuffy. A head cold was not unexpected, honestly. That's what he got for running around out in the freezing rain for a week and sleeping on a wet forest floor.

“Ryan…” Ned had suddenly taken on this strange tone of voice, more serious than Ryan had ever heard him. He heard a door click shut, and the background chatter on the other end of the line was silenced as Ned presumably shut himself inside an empty conference room. The conversation immediately felt much more intimate, almost uncomfortably so.

“Listen, Ryan, I know that whatever happened to you and Shane up in Keddie was super serious,” Ned started in a hushed tone. “I know you're not the kind of guys to just disappear for no reason, or to be funny or whatever. I don't _understand_ yet, but I do understand that things might be rough right now.”

Ryan nodded. This was true.

“But, buddy,” Ned continued, sounding nervous, “things are kinda hanging in the balance, here. The higher-ups have been on my ass all week demanding to know where you and Shane are, the fans have definitely started to notice your absence, and the office is a fucking wreck...and I haven't been able to give anyone any answers. Seriously, this past week there's been more tension than I've ever seen in my six years working here. It's even starting to affect the quality of other producers’ videos. Yesterday was fucking chaos ‘cuz one of the new interns thought she saw Shane and nobody got any work done.”

“Yeah, I assumed as much.” Ryan thought back to the outpouring of text messages from the day before.

“It's not just the lack of explanation, Ryan,” Ned barreled on. “We've all been worried sick about you two. It's impressive how much of an impact two people can have on an entire workplace when they just suddenly drop off the face of the earth. Lots of people thought that you might have died or gotten kidnapped.”

Ned paused.

“We’re really glad you're alright,” he added in a softer voice.

Ryan sighed. Yeah, alright. The guilting was a bit unnecessary, Ned. He knew that Ned wasn't _trying_ to make him feel bad, but his heart still twinged. It was all his fault, after all. He wouldn't blame Shane for this, no matter how much egging on he had done back up in Keddie. They wouldn't have been there at all if not for Ryan.

“By the way, how come I haven't been able to reach Shane at all? I know he's home because he called earlier and I don’t think he’s a liar but it was from and different number and it didn’t sound like him and I just—”

“Shane doesn't have a phone anymore,” said Ryan.

Ryan expected Ned to question this, but after an extended pause, he just responded with “Okay.” Ryan pictured the guy nodding helplessly to himself, trying in vain to fit all the misaligned puzzle pieces together. He wandered into the kitchen and opened his fridge, just to have something to do, and was reminded of how the light inside was broken, had been broken for months. He just didn't give enough of a shit to invest in a damn refrigerator light.

“I hope you feel better soon, Ryan,” Ned said sympathetically, but he still sounded antsy, like there was something he wasn't saying. “Jen said she, uh, _found_ you yesterday. You don't have to lie to me. Just come in when you can so we can talk, okay?”

Well, how wonderful. Thanks, Jen. Ryan knew that her reporting his _situation_ to Ned had probably been an act of care, but it felt a little like everyone and everything was against him, at this point.

Almost all of the contents of Ryan’s fridge were fast food leftovers, which meant that essentially everything had spoiled, aside from the beers in the side shelf. It gave Ryan a sad feeling, sort of the same feeling he got whenever he saw the old homeless guy sitting in the alley a few blocks from the office on his way to work, and it smelled sort of rank. The display was dark, stinky, and sad, a morbid reflection of himself. Ryan was a little pissed, all of a sudden.

“Get to the point, Ned,” he bit out, slamming the fridge door shut. The bottles in the door rattled ominously.

Ned cleared his throat. Ryan waited.

“They're threatening to cancel _Unsolved_ ,” Ned said in one breath, after an excruciating few seconds.

Ryan sharply gasped and tried to act like he hadn't almost just dropped his phone.

“ _What_?”

This wasn't fucking happening to him. The room suddenly started spinning like a carnival ride, so Ryan sank down the side of the countertop he’d been leaning against and sat on the floor.

“Listen, I don't like it any more than you do,” Ned rushed out. “But unless you can provide a legitimate reason for your and Shane’s absence soon, the execs might axe it. I haven't been able to explain why your Post-Mortem this week is so late, or why you two have both gone totally dead on social media for over a week, and they're _really_ not having the productivity issues it's been causing. The big shots think you and Shane are abusing the time away from the office that they gave you to go shoot the episode. Like this is some sort of freaking joke. And we both know it's not.”

Ryan’s grip on his phone was so tight, his knuckles were probably turning white. _It's not, it's not, it's not._

“It's _not_ ,” he agreed tersely.

“So, I mean, I know you're, uh, _sick_ right now, but—a formal explanation is due sooner rather than later, Ryan. I really wish I didn't have to force you into this.”

“It's okay,” Ryan said weakly, abruptly feeling very drained again. His voice was quiet, but every other part of his body and mind were screaming. His muscles were taut and trembling and sore, his mind a howling din of unintelligible, frantic noise.

“I'm in your corner, Bergara. I'm gonna fight for you as best I can, but you can't just leave this untouched. You can't just leave Unsolved. It's your baby.”

“I know. Thanks, Ned.”

“You don't deserve this, man.”

“Bye now, Ned.”

“I'm sorry, Ryan.”

Ryan hung up.

 

* * *

 

Shane had set out that day to find Ryan. Well, he’d actually set out to do a number of things. But number one on that list had been finding Ryan.

That morning, Scott had been gone when Shane woke up, but had returned an hour later with a brand new phone that he’d almost refused to accept, but the opioid allure of social media and human interaction had been too strong to pass up. He’d also made him a doctor’s appointment for his throat, per their mother’s insistent request over the phone. Scott had offered to make him more tea, but he wouldn't take it, even though his throat burned. It didn't really help, anyway.

Shane went to the clinic at one. He was wearing a scarf to hide the ring of bruises on his neck, and he looked like a hipster jackass, but he was sure that was at least a little on-brand, anyway. At least he was looking the part.

The doctor was Indian, with wiry salt-and-pepper hair and a name Shane was afraid of mispronouncing, and his hands smelled like latex and onions as they put gentle, clinical pressure on his throat. He diagnosed a bruised larynx and prescribed Shane giving his throat “a short rest,” which essentially meant keeping mum for a week. Shane fought not to groan at that. He'd already aggravated his injury more by being his chatterbox self for two days—a week of silence was going to be rough, and he probably wouldn't stick to it. After a number of pitying looks at the bruises on his neck over the duration of the visit, the nurse handed him a pamphlet full of suicide hotlines on his way out. Shane thanked her tersely as he re-wrapped his scarf and tried not to fume as he sought out the nearest trash can to toss it.

Stepping out into the street, Shane’s daily purpose smacked him in the face again. Ryan. Find Ryan. Right. But all that examining of his throat had made him acutely aware of its dryness and pain, and...yeah, who was he kidding, he needed some tea. Shane ducked into the nearest Starbucks and took his place in line, tapping his foot to the slow beat of the ambient music. Whoever had picked the playlist for the day must have been in some heavy depression, because the gloomy synth and sludgy bass muffledly coming out of the speakers above really matched his foul mood. He scowled as the teenaged girl in front of him ordered her fruity-patootie-frapa-whatever and thought of the look on Ryan’s face the day before, the way his voice had quivered in his mouth like an injured sparrow. His stomach wrenched. After this tea, he was getting to his friend, stat.

No sooner than he had stepped outside with a steaming cup of ginger rooibos in hand, though, did Ryan Bergara himself come barreling down the sidewalk and nearly directly into Shane, had Shane not put a steadying hand on his smaller friend’s tense shoulder. He staggered back a few steps, spilling some tea on his hand. Ow.

Shane had set out to find Ryan, but in the end, Ryan had found him. Wasn't that the way it always was?

Ryan looked up at him with this painfully bleak expression, a terrible mix of panic and desperation. He was also sweating a lot. Which made sense, Shane supposed, seeing as he'd been walking so fast for some reason that he'd been nearly running through the streets of Los Angeles at full tilt. It was still a little unnerving, because Ryan was so physically fit that he didn't typically tucker out so easily. Shane noticed that his nose was runny—maybe he was sick. Ryan panted.

“We—We need to talk,” he said. It would've sounded more authoritative if the poor guy wasn't struggling to catch his breath.

“Shit, Ryan.” Well, so much for the doctor’s orders. Shane cleared his throat aggressively, wincing when the area just behind his Adam’s apple smarted. “Okay.”

Ryan just stood there panting like a dog. His eyes were darting around nervously, like he was afraid. He was afraid. Shane could feel him shaking minutely under his loose grip on Ryan’s shoulder. Shane was bizarrely reminded of Father Thomas’s advice from all those months ago: _Do not be afraid._ He was semi-tempted to remind Ryan that there weren't any demons in downtown L.A. but felt the joke would be in bad taste.

“Alright, lil’ guy,” he croaked, ushering Ryan back into the Starbucks and into one seat of a two-seater table in the front window. He purchased an overpriced bottle of “artisan” water for his friend, then dropped himself into the seat across from Ryan and draped himself over the tabletop, his arms akimbo and his hands forming a diamond around his cup of tea. Shane looked up, and Ryan fidgeted. He still looked on edge. He hadn't even opened the water.

“Drink,” Shane told him.

Ryan uncapped the bottle and took a few tentative sips, then set it down and anxiously looked around again, trailing a big man in line across the room with his eyes. Not good enough. Shane gave him a pointed look and when Ryan caught his eye he almost smiled at him, rolling his eyes and taking a few long schlucks of water. Much better.

Ryan blew his nose into a napkin, sniffling.

“Ugh.” He looked up. “You know, it's pretty funny that I ran into you. Because I went out looking for you.”

Of _course_ he did. Man, did Shane feel like a shitty friend. He beckoned for Ryan’s phone and put his new phone number in. They sat in silence for a few minutes after that. Every few seconds, Ryan would look around the café nervously with just his eyes, or glance quickly out the window.

“So, uh,” Shane started, taking a sip of his tea, “you wouldn't just come barreling into me at Mach five for no reason. What's wrong?”

Ryan paused, then sighed and looked up, like there was maybe somebody in the ceiling who was listening to him too.

“A lot.”

Shane let out a sharp puff of air that couldn't quite be classified as a laugh. He was laughing at the quip, their situation, _God_ , maybe. The whole fucking world.

“You could say that again.”

“A lot,” Ryan repeated. His actual face remained neutral, but his twinkling eyes betrayed his internal shit-eating grin.

“You little shit,” Shane chuckled and smiled thinly. Ryan’s mouth twitched but he didn't smile back. Shane sighed.

“I'm sorry,” he said abruptly.

“What?” Ryan looked confused.

Shane shifted in his seat and sighed again. There were so many things he was sorry for. _I'm sorry for making you stay in Keddie. I'm sorry I almost got us both killed. I'm sorry I ruined your life. I'm sorry I always leave you alone._ He decided to go with the most immediate.

“I'm sorry for letting you leave like that yesterday. I should have made you stay. It wasn't right of me to let you go home alone.”

Ryan put his head in his arms and groaned.

“Oh God, Jen told _you_ , too?”

Shane swallowed his remorse and quirked an eyebrow. “I know that Jen was with you, but she didn't tell me anything else. It's no matter, I could tell you were upset when you left, which is what made it not okay.” Shane paused. “But now that you said that, I'm a little concerned that something bad _did_ happen.”

Ryan groaned again. “Me and my big fuckin’ mouth,” he mumbled.

“Ryan...” Shane said reproachfully. “What happened?” His worry for his friend was suddenly manifesting all over again twice as strong, like angry worms in his stomach.

Ryan lifted his head and sat back up. His expression was difficult to read.

“Nothing,” he said.

Shane squinted at him.

“Nothing important,” Ryan amended.

“Hmm,” said Shane.

“Please don't talk to Jen,” Ryan pleaded. Shane blinked in surprise. Was he _begging_?

“Uh. Okay, man, I won't,” he promised, putting his hands up in a placating gesture. Ryan leaned back and exhaled. He looked mighty uncomfortable talking about...whatever it was, so Shane decided to drop it. For now.

“What did you really want to talk about, Ryan?” He changed the subject and took a sip of his tea, grimacing as it went down.

Ryan ran his hands through his hair and sighed. When he removed them, his hair stuck up in a bunch of different directions. Through the speakers, the melancholy notes of _Landslide_ by Fleetwood Mac trickled down to Shane’s ears. The bleak look was back in Ryan’s eyes.

“Shane, we gotta—we gotta go back to work soon.”

Shane furrowed his brows. He had been planning on calling Ned again when he returned home later to get more information on the situation, but that was a little ridiculous. Ned had told him earlier on the phone that Shane and Ryan had both been granted a two-week unpaid leave. Which wasn't ideal, but still. They'd both just been nearly fucking murdered, and Ryan was seriously thinking about _work_?

Shane told him as much, and Ryan just sighed again. He looked nervous again, and a little angry for some reason.

“It's not like I _want_ to go back,” he said. “I could barely handle leaving my apartment today to find you. It's lucky I ran into you when I did, because otherwise I might've just freaked and gone home.” That admission made him curl up in his seat a little bit, like he was ashamed.

Shane frowned. Ryan's mounting levels of anxiety concerned him, and also, he was missing something.

“Then why?” he questioned. If Ryan could barely handle being out in public by himself, why the hell did he want to go back to work before he had to?

Ryan grit his teeth and glanced around the Starbucks again, his gaze finally settling over Shane’s shoulder on the man sitting behind him, with something like fear in his face. Shane cast a surreptitious glance back. It was the same man that Ryan had been watching earlier. The guy was heavy and squat, with a patchy brown beard, and powerful-looking, enormous hands, and okay, maybe he looked a _little_ bit like Officer Gamberg. But he was wearing a Tool t-shirt and sipping a macchiato. Shane closed his eyes and counted slowly to five.

“Ryan, hey, look at me,” he said, opening his eyes.

Ryan looked at him.

“Cool, good. Everything’s fine. Now tell me what's up.”

Ryan tilted his head back and sighed through his nose. “They wanna cancel it.”

Shane was confused for a second, but then— _oh._ His stomach dropped.

“What?”

“ _Unsolved_. They wanna cancel _Unsolved_ ,” Ryan clarified. He sounded angry, defeated maybe, his voice laced with a vicious, desperate _something_.

“I-I know, I—” Shane breathed, his head spinning with that information. “What the fuck? _Why_?”

“Hell if I know. Apparently the execs are more likely to assume that missing employees are wasting company hours sipping Mai Tais on the beach rather than being actually kidnapped or murdered.” Ryan sounded righteously bitter.

“Christ,” Shane muttered. “Yeah, sounds about right.” Filthy fucking bureaucrats, all of them.

“So we have to go in and explain to them what happened,” Ryan informed him, sounding a little frantic now, “or they're gonna axe my fucking show.”

A horrible thought occurred to Shane just then.

“Ryan,” he said quietly, hoarsely. “We don't have any proof.”

Ryan stared. And stared, and stared a little more. Shane swallowed painfully and looked away. Great, now he broke his friend.

“What,” said Ryan, eventually. It was the smallest Shane had ever heard his voice. Shane leaned in close, lowering his voice to a barely audible whisper.

“The tape is gone. Shit, even the hammer is gone.”

Ryan winced at _hammer_. Shane continued.

“You didn't get any photo evidence, and my old phone is gone as well. No one’s gonna believe us. Even if we wanted to involve the state police, or, shit, the FBI, we wouldn't be able to because we have no proof that any of that shit even happened.” Shane was getting a little frantic, himself. The thought that this horrific thing had happened to him and that nobody would ever believe him about it rattled him to his core.

“People are dead,” Ryan whimpered, staring at the tabletop blankly. Shane could tell he was thinking about...something he'd seen. Maybe Marilyn. Maybe someone else.

“And I’m sure they're not the only people to have been killed there.” Shane grimaced. “Think about it, Ryan. They've been covering murders up for decades. We were not the first ones to be on that town’s shit list, we were probably just one of the few to make it out alive.”

Ryan shuddered. He looked terrified, back to giving Shane that heart-wrenching deer-in-the-headlights expression from the days prior. Shane’s panic escalated slightly. He knew Ryan deserved to know what he was thinking, but he couldn't cause Ryan to freak out in public. He couldn't.

Suddenly Ryan blinked, schooling his expression. First, he furrowed his brow like he was deep in thought, and then he looked up with a certain resolve in his eyes. Shane leaned back and relaxed slightly, curious at what Ryan had to say. Ryan had always been braver than him.

“Your neck,” Ryan declared, pointing.

“Huh?” Shane looked down and adjusted his scarf self-consciously, pulling it further up. “Wh-What about it?”

“We don't have to—I don't think it's a good idea to involve the authorities. I don't think I even want to. We don't have to convince the police, we just have to convince...Buzzfeed.” Ryan gave a wry little smile that was gone as quickly as it'd come. “I think they'll believe us, if we tell them everything. How our tires got slashed, the false arrest, why we returned with none of the equipment, and—” he pointed at Shane’s neck again. “—the attempted murder. We can't prove that we had guns held to our heads, but we _can_ prove that they tried to strangle you.”

 _Hanged. They hanged me, Ryan._ Shane still didn't have the spoons to get the words out to correct him, so he said nothing. He was just so damn tired all of a sudden. He thought he had slept, but he probably hadn't. The ghostly sensation of a rope tightening around his neck like a vice made him want to shut his eyes and never open them again.

“Okay,” he mumbled. God, he was exhausted. His body was _proof_. “Okay, yeah. We can try it.”

“Alright,” Ryan announced, standing and brushing off his pants. “Lets go.”

“What—” Shane sputtered. “ _Now_?”

Ryan nodded.

“This is not what I thought you meant by ‘ _soon_ ,’ Bergara,” Shane quipped.

Ryan let out a single chuckle that wasn't really a laugh at all and held out his hand. He was almost-smiling again. Not quite—just almost.

“C’mon.”

Shane allowed himself to be pulled up out of his chair. He plastered on a smile and looked down at Ryan, who continued to almost-smile back. The cheery expression felt fake on his face, but Shane had always been in the business of brave faces and self-sacrificing gestures. If he seemed fine, Ryan would feel better, and that was all that mattered. It was Shane’s fault, after all. He smiled wider.

“Alright, Ry. Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time to face the music, boys.
> 
> i'm so, so sorry that this chapter is a bajillion years late. i was suffering from a pretty intense writing slump, and school and travel were kicking my ass again. i'm back in the saddle, now, though! thank you all for being so patient!
> 
> feedback is greatly appreciated <3
> 
> my tumblr is crappylittledemon! hmu if ya want to!


	6. bullets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! i’m back. please be sure to check the end for some important notes.
> 
> tw in this chapter for panic attacks

Deciding to walk into work in the middle of the day after being on the local missing persons list for almost a week _may_ not have been Ryan’s brightest idea. But this was something that he _needed_ to do, for his own sanity; otherwise, he'd just be up all night anyway panicking about the prospect of losing his show, his career. As much as the traumas of the past week had made the production of YouTube videos seem astoundingly insignificant in comparison, the prospect of losing it all still terrified him. Plus, Ryan honestly didn't know when the next time he'd be willing to leave his apartment would be. It had been hard enough going out again after that...that first time.

There were a lot of people on the sidewalk. A lot. Making eye contact felt like a death sentence, so Ryan stared down at the shimmering concrete. One foot in front of the other. The only person he could trust here was Shane, he had to remember that. He started squinting at the bodies walking past, any large fold of clothing or suspicious bulge under a jacket causing his brain to jump to _gun_. He was pretty sure it was illegal for civilians to carry guns in California...wasn't it? God, what the fuck was wrong with him? Shane walked close by his side and after having to grab his hand for the second time to keep Ryan from walking directly into traffic, he just didn't let it go. Ryan could feel those eyes on him again. His hand was slippery with sweat—he was suddenly struck with the fact that Shane was probably finding it pretty gross. He didn't move to pull it back, though, allowing himself to be led down the street, numbly plodding along on the asphalt.

The blasting A/C washed over Ryan before he realized they were inside; he shivered, and Shane squeezed his hand once, tight. Ryan looked up, seeing that the office lobby was mostly barren. A few stragglers were returning from a late lunch and some interns flitted about doing late afternoon coffee runs, but most of their coworkers were either working upstairs in the office area or were out on video shoots. 2 P.M. in the Buzzfeed offices was a sleepy sort of busy, and Ryan stood in that corner of the lobby by the door for a few tranquil moments, Shane’s hand in his, watching people come and go through the doors without sparing them a second glance. It was nice to be invisible in a place where they so clearly were supposed to be seen.

Shane tensed suddenly by his side. No one would have noticed it unless they were standing as close as Ryan was. Ryan followed his line of sight and immediately locked eyes with Daysha, who was standing across the room by the stairwell.

Ryan could tell she had seen them. She was squinting at them, scrutinizing, like she was trying to decide whether or not Ryan and Shane were some sort of mirage. Shane let go of Ryan’s hand awkwardly and wiped his hand on his pants. Ryan shifted on his feet but otherwise didn't dare to move, feeling pinned in place. He saw the exact moment the realization hit Daysha a second later, as her eyes widened, bugged out of her head, she opened her mouth, and—

She screamed. And pointed.

“Shit—!”

Shane moved to go forward, but Ryan beat him to it, sprinting across the lobby and instinctively clamping his hand over her mouth. She squirmed and wrenched her face away.

“Don't fuckin’ put your _hand_ over my _mouth_ , boy what the fuck—!”

Ryan looked around. Shit, other people were staring now. No one else who he recognized, but still. They probably recognized _him_. He grabbed both Shane’s and Daysha’s arms and pulled them down the hall and into the nearest room, which happened to be the floor’s gender neutral single-toilet restroom. Dumb luck had led him to a room with a lock; he would take it. Ryan let go of Daysha to lock the door and turned back around, sagging against it. His chest heaved, his armpits and back still dripping uncomfortably with sweat.

Daysha was staring at her forearm like she couldn't quite believe Ryan had just been gripping it. Then she looked up at them.

“You guys are...here.” She blinked hard, like she still wasn't sure they were standing in front of her.

“Yeah,” Ryan said. Shane nodded.

She looked around at the tiny restroom the three of them were standing in, then down at her arm, then back up at them again.

“What the _fuck_?”

Ryan barked out another short laugh that wasn't a laugh, because, yeah, that about summed it up.

“I—I mean—” Daysha shifted her tote bag on her shoulder, letting out a slow whoosh of breath as she stared up at them with wide eyes. “Everyone was talking about you guys being back, but I didn't wanna let myself think—or get my hopes up—”

She paused to wipe her eyes and breathed in shakily. Ryan let himself smile a little bit. He'd always have a friend in Daysha.

“We’re,” he started, pausing to look up at Shane, who gave a shrug. “We’re...okay.”

“Thank God for that,” Daysha sighed. Her expression hardened slightly. “But, no offense, you both look like shit. So don't take it personally if I don't take your word for it.”

That got a smile out of Shane. Daysha blinked up at him.

“Why so quiet, gentle giant?” she asked, cocking her head. Shane shifted uncomfortably and pulled his scarf up.

“Uh, he, uh...he hurt his throat,” Ryan spoke up for him. “He's giving it a rest.”

“Hurt his throat?” Daysha questioned. She looked up at Shane’s neck, his bunched-up scarf, his shifty eyes looking up at the ceiling tiles, and seemed to realize...something, because her eyes went wide and her mouth opened in a silent _oh_.

She was silent for a painfully long moment. Ryan shuffled his feet on the damp tile and tried to think about anything else but those angry, dark welts under that scarf.

When Daysha finally spoke up again, it was with the one question that Ryan had been avoiding for days, the internal words that had haunted him to this moment.

“Guys…what the fuck happened to you up there?”

“Some really bad, fucked-up shit,” Ryan said, his whole body shivering despite the heat. “Let's just leave it at that, for now. Yeah?”

Daysha pursed her lips and nodded.

“Shane and I have to go talk to the execs now, anyway,” Ryan informed her, his voice sounding clipped to his own ears. “That's why we're here. We're not really coming back yet. We’ve just gotta convince those dumbasses not to cancel my show.”

Daysha actually jumped, her silver hoops bouncing and swaying by her shoulders with the motion. “ _What_?! They wanna cancel _Unsolved_? Are you fuckin’ with me?”

Ryan scowled in agreement. “Yeah, that was my reaction, too. Ned called me, and apparently the big wigs don't _really believe_ that Shane and I almost fucking died. They think we were wasting company time, or something.”

“Wait, you almost _died_?” she squawked.

“Not relevant right now,” Ryan dismissed quickly, waving his hand. Beside him, he heard Shane shift on his feet again and make a near-indiscernible tiny sound in his throat.

“Ryan, I sure as hell think that's _relevant_ —”

“Please, Daysha, just stop,” Ryan sighed, all at once feeling exhausted again. “I don't feel good talking about it right now, so please just drop it.” He ran an unsteady hand through his hair, avoiding Daysha’s pitying eyes. “Having to tell a bunch of strangers who want to ruin my career is gonna be hard enough. We’ll tell you about it when we're ready, I guess.”

Daysha physically took a small step back. “Aw man, no pressure, Ryan. I understand.” She looked at both of them and smiled sadly. “I love you guys.”

Ryan sort-of smiled back. “I love you too,” he said, looking warmly at his friend. Shane nodded vigorously, then loudly cleared his throat. Daysha jumped.

“I really appreciate you, Daysha,” he croaked. His voice was still gravelly as hell. Daysha winced, then laughed.

“Oof, I think Ryan was right, you should give that throat a rest, big guy,” she snickered. “You sound just like my chainsmoking auntie.”

That actually got a raspy laugh out of Shane, and the sound lit up something small, warm, and flickering within Ryan, like a lone candle nestled between his lungs—something like hope. He exhaled, and when he reached out his hand to brush against Shane’s, Shane twined their fingers together and squeezed, his palm clammy from sweat but warm and solid and grounding. Ryan squeezed back, and Daysha smiled on softly, eyebrows still knit in concern.

He could do this. _They_ could do this. He looked up at Shane and let one side of his mouth pull up, his best attempt at a look of confidence.

“Let's save our fucking show.”

 

* * *

 

There were two main components to life, Shane thought as he scuffed his boots on the fake wood flooring: the plan and the problem. The plan, no matter how solid, was always inevitably undermined by the problem. This fact had just about suplexed him into the hard ground over the past week; he would _know_. The best laid plans of mice and men oft go awry, etcetera, etcetera.

The _plan_ was to convince the executive board to let them continue with _Unsolved_. Just lay it all out on the table, show the big wigs his fucked up neck, answer any questions the best they could. For all the odd hours they tended to keep, the directors and heads of office were able to get together to meet them in record time, sequestering themselves in a small conference room across the hall from Studio E.

Everything was set in place: the execs were seated around the table, Shane and Ryan were standing before them, they were surrounded by frosted glass and soundproof walls. It was go time.

“First off, Shane and I would like to sincerely apologize for our unannounced absence,” Ryan began. “We know how concerned everyone must have been.” He confidently puffed out his chest and spoke in a commanding voice, but a sheen of sweat clung to his brow as he white-knuckled the underside of the table. Shane nodded enthusiastically.

“You see, what happened was—” Ryan stopped cold and went rigid. As did Shane.

The _problem_ was that there were gunshots coming from Studio E.

“What—” Ryan blinked several times in rapid succession. He cleared his throat, rocking in place on his heels a bit. “What are they filming in there?” He made a jerky motion with his head in the direction of the hallway. Shane still felt paralyzed.

“Oh, just a video about some famous criminal’s escape from prison,” said one of the execs, gesturing vaguely and drumming his fat fingers on the table. His wedding ring clicked against the plastic. Shane thought his name might be Brad, or Brogan. “You know, reenactments and explanations of the whole scheme. Solved, of course.” That felt like an unnecessary jab.

Another muffled gunshot sound effect rang out. Suddenly, all Shane could hear was his own heart thudding in his ears.

“Hm,” he eked out, a tiny, constricted sound. His throat felt tighter than usual.

“You were saying, what happened was…?” Another executive prompted. She looked appropriately concerned. In Shane’s periphery, Ryan shifted closer to him.

“W-Well what happened was, uh, we got stuck in Keddie and the townspeople, they—”

**_(BANG)_**

The room and the voices already felt far away, like Shane was slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean. He had to consciously think about it in order to take in a breath, which must’ve sounded very sudden and gasping, because all of a sudden everyone was looking at him, so he snapped his head up to look back, but he was so lightheaded his eyes wouldn’t focus and he couldn’t really _look_ at them or get his bearings and Ryan’s hand was there (when did it get there?) burning on his wrist and he wasn’t sure if he was breathing at all again and—

“W-We gotta go! So sorry!” Ryan’s voice cut through, high pitched and frantic, and well, if that wasn’t the shortest and least hopeful business meeting Shane had ever attended. The thought flew into his panicking brain unbidden. _That’s that._

Shane felt himself being dragged along by the wrist and _god it’s just like he’s being dragged through the forest again, sprinting for dear life, branches whipping his face, his heart pounding out of his chest as he and Ryan evade those snarling teeth and gunshots ring out into the gloom from all directions._ He couldn’t see a fucking thing and he just kept stumbling along, brief flashes of his normal vision forcing their way into the flashback in interrupting bursts, swaths of blurred linoleum and staggering boots covered in swimming black spots.

The gunshot sounds over and over in his head, louder and louder, on a constant, sickening loop, right behind his eyes. And _it’s_ _the sensation of cowering and weeping in fear, cold gun to his pounding temple, kneeling on wet leaves as Marilyn approaches with another fucking gun in her hand, the sound of Ryan’s screams as Hagwood is shot through the skull, splattering him with blood, then Gamberg, then her, her blood and brains and skull bits everywhere and it’s wet and red and she’s dead they’re all dead Ryan and he are dead too and the fucking sound of it makes him sick it makes him fucking_ sick _it_

 _“SHANE!”_ Ryan’s voice was so clear in a single, sharp instant that it startled the shit out of Shane. He snapped his head up, and he was sitting on the floor, when did that happen? And Ryan was crouching in front of him, all blurry and moving weirdly, leaving afterimages in his wake like a Tron cycle, or something. Shane let his unfocused eyes follow Ryan as he moved his head and appeared to leave a trail of wide, white-ringed eyes to the left of his face. The black spots were still swirling around the edges of his vision like soot on water, still trying to crowd in. There was this low, grunting, wheezing noise all around, and Shane only realized after a few distorted seconds that it was coming from him.

“Shane, _breathe_.”

“Hah,” Shane panted, not about to attempt words. He put his head between his knees and closed his eyes, digging his palms in and watching the swimming black spots turn yellow and red beneath his eyelids. When his breathing got under control and the dizziness finally dissipated, he looked up at Ryan, who had this head down in his elbows, fingers shoved through his hair.

Ryan lifted his eyes above his arms when Shane put a gentle hand on his shoulder. They were slightly red-rimmed and he was breathing deep, a bit faster than normal. Shane blinked. Even while in the midst of freaking out himself, Ryan had managed to get Shane out of there, who could do nothing but stand there feeling...liminal. And God, _afraid_. The sound of that gunshot had made... _something_ that he’d been forcing down spring out, rushing to the surface all at once like a tidal wave of primal terror.

Ryan lifted his head fully and regarded him, silent but for his slowing breaths, as Shane rubbed his thumb in slow circles, back and forth against the thin fabric of Ryan’s t-shirt. Shane was comforting Ryan, but he was also comforting himself; after holding Ryan’s hand so frequently since the incident, he had found that touching Ryan felt safe, imbued him with a sense of calm. He spread his fingers and felt two of his fingertips brush warm, bare skin. Ryan was always warm, like the California sun itself ran through his veins. Ryan shivered, but stayed still for a few more seconds.

Then, Ryan stood up, offering a hand to help up Shane, and Shane didn’t even realize until that moment that they’d been sitting on a bathroom floor. Gross. He readily accepted the hand and let himself be hauled up, brushing off his pants.

“Let’s get outta here,” Ryan breathed, not looking at him. Shane took Ryan’s hand, and Ryan looked down at it, then forward.

And so, they left.

 

* * *

  

“Well, that went terribly,” Shane announced once they were about two blocks away, sucking on a honey-lemon cough drop that he’d pilfered from his desk drawer on his way out.

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed, scuffing his sneakers on the concrete. He hadn’t even considered the auditory trauma situation, and...Shane was definitely worse off than Ryan had thought, worse than how Shane tried to project. This was old hat, Ryan thought with a grimace. It wasn’t the first time Shane was pretending to be fine when he really wasn’t. Obviously, the other times it had been about smaller things, but still. It was just the Midwest way, he’d come to understand, or maybe just the Shane Madej way. It was as if he really thought that if he buried all his feelings deep inside, he’d be better off. It was bullshit.

“Wonder what they’ll do about the show?” Shane mused, a tinge of worry coloring his voice.

“I don’t know,” said Ryan. He really didn’t.

They walked in silence for a while. Shane kept opening his mouth like he was about to say something, then kept seeming to think better of it.

“Come back with me,” he blurted as they were walking by the street Ryan would have to turn down to get home. Ryan stopped.

“What?”

“Come with me to my apartment,” Shane clarified, halting as well. “My parents flew in a little bit ago, they’re going to visit me around six. Join us for dinner?” Shane twisted that last bit up into a question, rolling his whole long body back and forth on the balls of his feet.

What the fuck? This didn’t make sense. Shane was—no, this was—this wasn’t right.

“Shane,” Ryan said slowly. “This is your _family_. You should be spending time with them alone. They probably thought you were dead.”

Ryan winced at his own words, reminding himself of how he’d called his mom earlier and how she’d been placated by the single phone call. He hadn’t told her anything. He didn’t want her to worry about him. So, he had held his tongue and bitten back his tears and his emotions threatening to spill over and his need for motherly comfort and he had told her that he was fine, that it'd just been a busy week of filming. She hadn’t seemed to fully buy it, prodding at Ryan until he snapped and had to apologize. She ended up just saying she was there for him if he needed her and ending the call, leaving Ryan feeling like a total asshole of a son. He never snapped at his mother...before.

Ryan knew it was all on him, but he wasn’t going to pretend that Shane’s brother showing up at his door apropos of nothing but his missed calls, his family flying in from Chicago at the drop of a hat, didn’t sting a little.

“You don’t need me there,” Ryan said.

“Yes, I do,” Shane insisted, firmer now. “Ryan, I’ve seen some shit that can break a man. You have, too. I’m fucking _terrified_ to see my parents again, to be quite honest with you. I mean I want to, but...” He looked away, wincing back when his eye caught a bright sun glare off a windshield. “You understand, right?”

And Ryan _did_ , God, he did, but—

“I never should’ve let you leave yesterday, anyway,” Shane added.

“Huh?” Ryan thought back to his humiliating episode the previous day and immediately wished he could just forget it all.

“Us ghoul boys gotta stick together, y’know, until this whole thing blows over. It’s fucking scary, Ryan. You really want to be alone in this?” And he looked genuinely hurt with worry, saying that, his droopy eyes all big and his brows downturned. Fuck.

“You really think this is all going to ‘blow over,’” Ryan deadpanned grimly, feeling his heart drop at the thought of the inevitable rough seas ahead. “Shane, it’s going to be more complicated than that. You know it will be.”

Shane gave a wry smile. “I know.” He held out his hand. “But you’ll be there with me, right?”

Ryan felt heat rise to his face. Shane was making this so fucking cheesy, but it hurt, and his heart couldn’t _take_ it.

“Shane—“

“I want you there with me, Ryan,” said Shane. “And I want to be there with you.”

There, in the yellow glow of the setting sun, Shane standing vulnerable with his hand outstretched to him on a busy street corner, there was nothing in Ryan left to say no. At the risk of getting embarrassingly emotional again, Ryan interlocked his fingers with Shane’s, looking down and blinking a few times to dissipate the gathering tears.

“You’re gonna make me cry, big guy,” he muttered, using his free arm to swipe at his face with indignation.

“Tears of pure joy, I hope,” Shane said with a throaty chuckle. He squeezed their hands together and tugged them forward.

And forward, they went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god, i’m so sorry for disappearing. i got stuck on this story for a while and then got drowned by coursework, so my very humblest apologies. hopefully this makes up for it at least a little bit.
> 
>  **IMPORTANT CHANGES: PLEASE READ**  
>  if you are a previous reader of this story, i made a few changes. namely, sara is no longer a part of the story. i removed her because the original plot was headed towards a shane/sara breakup, and i honestly just don’t want to write that. sorry if this is a disappointment to anyone, but this is the only way i can continue with this story. 
> 
> the changes are basically from ch 3 through this chapter, but i’ll highlight them if you don’t want to go back and reread:  
> \- shane is single  
> \- it’s shane's brother knocking at the door the morning after they get back, instead of sara  
> \- shane is the one who contacts jen after ryan’s breakdown  
> \- shane’s family is flying out to meet him
> 
> as always, you can find me as crappylittledemon on tumblr!


End file.
